soulsick

(distracted by what I think is the craze of life)

(confronting neglect to which I so easily return)

Remembering now, as I crash to a stop, it's so strange to talk to you alone; I can barely say your name aloud. The love song I wrote you, I meant every blessed burnt-out word; the miraculous scars you wrote on my heart could not, cannot help but cry out, but as for the rest, I feel like I've never been more than an affectionate stranger.

The quiet reminds me of how I hate to think that this will always be a piece of the character I won't shed while I'm here. How confusing! not to be hopeless but to be not hopeful of ever being cured of myself. Do I sell myself short? or you?

Do I really wish for the hound of heaven to be pressing ever at my heels?

Funny how all the terrible metaphors -- wasted talents, thankless heirs, whores who cry, they apply to me and nobody knows but you but you don't care at all. Except for as far as they keep me away from the reach of your arms.

I don't do you right. I live this life wrong. So thanks for the hope, for the grace, for the song you gave me to write to you, but bear with me still; one day the strangeness will fade into the crushing familiar I long for and I'll pray your name aloud without a single glance to the ground save for those weighted down, with a smile on my face, by my great love for you.