You Are Here

A song of self-searching

I'm growing 
into something
I can't quite recognize.

I look in the darkness,
a shimmering tenderness
greeting me from the other side,
so clear and transparent
it burns;
so docile in its forward manner
that I feel the need 
to tame my own wilderness
just to touch it,
afraid that everything
that is ugly in these old shoes
might trample
its subtle spirit
or scare the greatness
of such a lightweight.

I don't understand
our exchange,
but my body seems to know
a secret I can't name.

I try to catch the shy luminescence
of its spark,
a spirit risen from the ashes,
an ounce of goodness at the root
of my evil.

Lord knows it will not be caught.

But the more I hold this truth
the more I run towards the impossibility,
a hungry savage
aware of the bounty;
a stale survivor,
blandishing the hubris 
of previous defeats
like a calling card;
yes, we've been here before,
you and I,
but where did we each stand?

I see you,
just as you see me,
and we embrace
this macabre dance.

It becomes increasingly obvious,
and yet I still can't quite name you.

Come to me, surrender;
know now
that I plead on my knees
like the beggar that I am.

We've always known
this us to be true,
and yet we fuel the angst
with the unthinkable.

I keep returning
to the plural,
as if you and I were one.
Any other would mock me.
But not you.

That which is light
and fair,
this grace you so simply 
exude,
grants me the breathing room
to be in total darkness.

I don't know
what to make
of your terrifying peace.
I want it
as badly
as I crave the chaos.

And so I swim,
flying in perpetual circles,
confronted,
confronting,
soothed
by the smooth air
our dance stirs,
expecting the light
to find us here,
there,
in the blink of an I,
in the space with no name,
in our beautiful blind spots.