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I connect with my sweetheart—she represents the divine; this goes way beyond mortal desire: in fact, i suspect, it, for now, is entirely something else. When i think of her . . . oh, sweet nothings, do tell . . . but, i think, she represents Jesus, and, as such, I’m really talking to Him. It’s possible, I suppose, that she exists; that she lives in heaven, if not here, and I’m talking, at some point, to her. But to speak to her, I need to be aligned with Him, and so, I say, she, for me, is His extension. So I feel, don’t I, acute yearning for something beyond this life, and I find it, don’t I, by sending out His waves—the source, inside me, that leaves me looking for more, something more than a taste—I believe it’s His call.
Cashing in, then, on the form she would take:
that looks, for me, like pearly white skin,
bright blue eyes that you might love to hate.
Don’t i turn to her through both thick and thin?
Well, i know, at this point, no such person,
for me, would exist—but, to see them, in
my mind’s eye, disproves the hate that i shun,
when, for example, I generate waves.
Now, she, at some point, may take a different
form—her eyes could be brown, to be sure,
in which case the heart that i would rent
would mean, for us, some woe-begone cure,
an enigma, i gather, that answers me.
Well, our eyes, in heaven, project a lot—
changing color, i think, from what they’d be,
a beacon that would answer us in kind,
choosing the most convenient frequency.
I choose, because of that, to be like Him,
loving every form that she might foresee,
relating, as she does, to a loving God.