Off I go again
into the shadowy recesses of mind.
There she is, hiding behind the attic trunk.
Peering out, so fearful of being seen.
What is this darkness that plagues me now?
Why this sadness… this grief piercing my heart?
It is the loss of the one who loved
And with that loss
Went also the one to love.
Which grieves me more deeply?
The loss of being loved or the
object of my love?
To hold or be held?
To caress or be caressed?
To be lover or beloved?
Can the act of loving
be separated from the experience of being loved?
Is not the act of loving the creation of love itself?
I think it impossible to be loved
If love is not first born in the heart of the beloved.