Submitted by Allison Grayhurst
.
Love is love, full of thirst and suffering
but stronger still than
the devil’s lyre. Once
my world was a wound of sleepwalking
and intangible thoughts.
Today, there is a voice under the sheets
that has learned the language of my private choir.
God seems distant, farther than imagination can conjure,
but I know it is only a fossil for tomorrow’s hands
and a new facet of a living faith.
Sometimes my ribs are drowning in foreign blood
and my hopes like colouring books
are torn. Sometimes I want to feel the light touch of a finger
and catch the nectar of kind breath.
Love is love, longing for more, longing
to know its kiss has reached another’s heart,
and then to have it returned
like never before.
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