The Long Years (2.28.13)

For four years,
I’ve waited for your call.

Day in, day out

The light was out
In your heart.

I brought the kerosene,
I brought the matches.
I brought the torches,
And I brought the wood.

Nothing works now like it should,
Not since before that November morning.

I called in arsonists.
I called in firefighters.
No one can give me the verdict on
the condition of your inflammable heart.
It just sits cold as a stone in your concave chest.

Why must we do this to ourselves
day in, and day out?

What do I believe about you and you about me that keeps us from being happy?
What sinks our ship in the harbor, and dives it down to the depths of the sea?

Places, names, and faces
They all come and go.
Quiet desperation in their passing
Never quite eludes my soul.

Always grasping, reaching
Not yet passing and releasing
Not yet allowing and being.

In the fluidity, there is freedom.
In the holding, there is insight.

Between the two I straddle,
Between the two I rest.

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