Souls conflict with selves. In adoring You, I witnessed You; in loving You, I couldn’t see You. I try to remeasure an implant, absent of meaning, nothing dearer to heart aside for a memory, mismatched with reality. Spirits are crocheting imprints. I was hearing self, and called Your name. I was undergoing fever, and longed for Your presence. I was witnessing the best of behaviors in a stranger. It’s radical how the mind will garden a soul; neither to live in symbiosis, nor ever sit alone, nor voice anything found delicate for each other; just there, and aware of it. I was reading the word of apostles, and communion set loose, I kept looking around in those days. I was in trance, listening, if but one syllable, if but one request. I dare not call it by measures of an appearance. I dare not ask for what no other has received. Such opalescent agonies; a soul desires the Beloved, after the kiss, before departure. Likeness of my passions, arts of my spirit, to know what devastates existence. The few in the many; the Meriam in the few. It becomes challenging. It watches. It shifts.
