Dear Pneuma,

You walked out the door.
My day grew long.
It is dangerous, this love of mine,
Love that relies, depends, defines itself in you.

What is it when you are gone?

Loneliness. . . Lessness . . . Loss

I don't want to love you like this: in a way that makes me feel.

     I catch myself stacking glass bricks.

Reversion

     Forgetting I used to live life that way: wanting without reaching

The promise of Love, though

     Is touching Loneliness

          knowing self next to, beside, being outside the other

     Is choosing Loss

          realizing time, change, fragility and incompletion

     Is seeing self Lessened alone

          though no more singular than ever before.

I suppose, I just don't remember Wisdom telling me this.

Maybe I tried not to hear.

Seems this love is a miracle, happening when I forgot to fear the pain.

-Cobalt Dreams