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;
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
There is nothing she can do,
Nor can I,
except surrender the search And slink my way back down that lonely hill.