We lose ourselves in so many narratives
Chase rainbows, fly kites
woven through years of longing and craving
and plain need, fuzzy as it may be
A return to a forgiving womb of sorts,
a masculine embrace redeeming all.

We dream, believe, trust, dissolve
Only to succumb in the narrative of another
where inevitably we were always someone else
where we were never but a ghost
of inscrutable expectations
lost in subtle translations.

May we then be some kind of god in our forgiveness
Alien even to ourselves in our rationality
Howling animals in our scars
Human in our own healing
Angels in the healing we will offer to others.

For D.


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