- That the scars I hide are not strong enough to hold your upcoming wounds
- That the accomplishments deemed as my successes will be turned into two-flavored fuel:
Bitter and Undone
- That the sutra of community participation will become an exhaustive study of unchanted recitation
I don’t understand why the act of making love does not rid us of impersonal inspection. I don’t understand when or how my body became more important than my presence, nor have I gleaned the difference.
In my uncertainty there is great stillness, as genuine as the manner of oneness with which my body has never stopped yearning for – with another’s.
I fear there is no lunar month to reference that would confirm the anchoring of our liberation, nor affirm the protective properties of your eyes in mine.
I fear there are no vessels available to fully express how love is not abrupt, and how iterations of its importance is retarded in self-denial and self-arousal.
I fear not to have tasted the most important afflictions with the sugar of grace, that nothing feel unwarranted.
I don’t fear so greatly that my ignorance remains beyond approach. I ‘do’ everything I fear, and everything I don’t.
So after all, I fear most not knowing the fear to heed.