The woman I am in love with is made of wings
She has no void that needs to be filled by what I have to offer, yet
Some thing is lacking.

Dignified as a mountain
she has pity for my tender longing;
but no way to soften the hardness
that grates inside my place of need.
She cares, and is sorry that her being brings wounds;
Helplessly watching
as I slather over her surface
searching for an entry point.

Any actor such as I am

(aren’t we all?)

longs to express their native nature;

share the ongoing inner drama

with the image that appears in their mirror,

yet …..isn’t it true;

love has no meaning without sharing.

Unfortunately, her theatre is closed for repairs;

“not here” she says

“not now”

“not you”.

There is nothing she can do,
Nor can I,

except surrender the search And slink my way back down that lonely hill.

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