I wailed write, write
And He love, love
And we spoke of the same thing.
I held on to bundles of parchment,
They did nothing but bleed the oil from the fingertips,left them dry, split, and tender;
It gave me no place to find wisdom,
No place to leave my own.
I had dreams of someone,
Who would pour forth tears I had not cried for myself;
Someone, to Read back to me letters I had never written, or received.
I built Homes full of things that were to explain the condition of my heart, and all that it held.
I wanted for hands larger then my own, to hold everything that I felt was mine, all that had been entrusted to me, these hands that could hold mine without wavering.
I found love in my cheekbones,That I have never known,
Or fathomed,Pain from my heart, unpracticed;
Not knowing what it had missed since his failure
The burn of a healing wound, and the beauty of fresh covering.
