let you go.
To yet preserve a
longing and carry that
weight around-
What does the bird
that flies away know
of a void it left
in the prison?
And to sing the same
song again and again
to the bird that
never returns.
To feel the warmth
of her skin and sculpt
it on stone and to
burn it on a canvas
with paint.
Oh, it must be tiring
to do something like that.
A habit grown out of hand.
A compulsion that
becomes art.
The hum that keeps
rampaging without the
need for validation and
goes everywhere but
to her.
And even if it does,
she doesn't get it.
And when your creation,
When it goes beyond
what it was meant for,
oh, that's love.
That's beyond love-
That's redemption of
Self. The becoming
of your unbecoming.