Absence of Self

 
Beloved, there's still something I haven't told you.
Fragments of feeling remain scattered, unspoken!
Perhaps you simply have no time
to touch my eyes, or these tears, even briefly.
How can I make myself understood
to someone who cannot read my tears?


You know, these past few days
I've come to know myself a little more!
I am terribly foolish—
though I've known this all along; yet
today I see that if I'm a fool, I'm twice the ass!


In your depths I searched only for love,
while all this neglect surrounding me, thick as fog,
I never even noticed!


You're thinking, perhaps, that the other day
I spoke such harsh words to you,
and here I am today stringing together so many more!
You might well wonder—what is all this ceremony for?
Why am I drawing these patterns across the courtyard of my heart?
Why do I still bathe my body in this wax moonlight, so intent?


Looking for reasons? Listen, I'll tell you!
All my wild, untethered emotions—
they never once questioned you,
yet somehow answers came anyway, unbidden!
In your joy, in your sorrow, at work or at rest—
nowhere was I present, not even a speck!


I wasn't there in your thirsting voice, nor
in any line that suddenly awakened within you!
In your beloved crowd of words, in your nest of self—
I was buried there long ago!


My presence never drew you, not even by mistake, in any twilight hour!
So today, let it be—from now on
let my very absence take responsibility for keeping you well, even a little!