How uncomfortable, how uncomforting to love another when your love is asked to be shared not but under and as the waning moon. You stand before me as a receeding wave, that entices with beauty and danger, an adventure that beckons and refrains that runs and crashes and sings.
I see my breath color the sky, cloud my eyes. I turn into an infant of immortality, possessing, beyond my matter, a love that stretches out to infinity. I exist blind to that which others take to be truth but is naught but a lie. But then in moments I lay in a lack of clarity- suddenly I can then see, that which is not there to see, and it hurts me, the me that wills to exist hurting. The beauty shines not in joy but in painful jest I lay mocked, Milton's words pressing hard against my tounge "jealousy is the injured lovers hell," willing me to speak that which is illusion, to be self-fufilled in dependency.
My feet grow roots which sink sink sink down and become strong. I wipe the growth away as it dissenigrates at my touch. And again I lay claim to blindness, a blindness more awakened than that of those whom profess to see.
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