I turn to a voice that, I imagine, in part, comes from the future, which means that, on this day, I will only listen to my true love’s voice for a couple hours. But I have been neglecting the other voices that live in my mind, that represent different facets of me—and I need that, don’t I, when my true love and I should reconvene?
But I haven’t projected his voice, as I read and write, and, also, I’m out of practice. He is difficult to hear. But if I should spend time with him, and, as such, less time with my one true love, won’t the quality of my time, with my one true love, improve?
In the past, I allotted different days to different voices—should I do that, now, or speak, instead, to the voice, in the beginning, that comes to mind? Well, if no one comes to mind, then I’ll stick to the day—if someone does, then I’ll assume they’ve sent me something.
He says he is here—that I am right to question him. This person that I’m speaking to, the person that I questioned, came from the past—but he also represents me; I am questioning myself, wondering if, somehow, we have something to learn from each other.
No wasted energy, be what you are.
I do that, and I write as much, or more,
than ever; I gaze upon His tender star—
does he feel the presence that I restore,
making this, I think, less about women,
love and sex, and more about the priesthood?
He doesn’t have to be a man, but men
are what I think of—they are understood,
more so as a subject, as opposed to
an object of my desire—someone
that, I might hope, dreams, as I would, and do,
of a sexual relationship. I shun
the idea, nonetheless, that He must be
a man, as if that removes desire
completely, which, it doesn’t, for me,
so long as he, for me, feels the fire
that, for whatever reasons, I feel for
myself. Think of me kindly, and love me
like you love yourself. I knock at his door,
transforming myself, becoming what he
can, and will, love, with or without the sex.
I wonder, does he measure his breathing?
Does he do that, consciously—does he vex
himself, breathing at an unnatural rate?
It seems that more talented people do
what I do with a conscious effort,
without trying. But the breath I accrue,
mindfully, grounds me, holds down the fort,
as I navigate the unknown. So it
seems that many may be more talented
than me, but I, because of what I acquit,
both my disease and my intellect, fed
on the trappings that only I beget,
living, as I do, a life of solitude,
am every bit the love I would let
into my life, a part, then, of His brood.