The Breath Kept in View

Will this illusion in our love never end? I'm not waiting for your love—I write to you today, I cherish you still.

I don't know why lately I feel impossible to myself. Getting close to you matters as much as I need to make you understand the intensity of my love for you—perhaps even more.

Why do people love lies so much, can you tell me? Who am I to keep accounts of sin and virtue?

You've been looking at me all this time, yet you don't understand—I can't bear this emotion much longer. It doesn't trouble me at all when you place your hand on my chest. Your tenderness keeps me alive. I want you in the depths of my feeling; don't wound me.

Every time I've touched your body, you never heard the trembling sound inside my chest, did you? Then why do you do this?

The person you cannot breathe without—that very person will know best how to neglect you most. Is this too the rule of the world? How he distances himself from you, with what ease, with what comfort—you have no inkling of it at all.

What is this attachment, this maya? A lie, that's what it is. Yet why do I nurture such tenderness for you? How much longer must I carry this lie? Will you keep your body pressed to mine?

I want to show you all my sorrow. And love? Why can't love be expressed so easily? I desperately want to heal—only to have you. And if I can't... I'll try so hard, I'll surrender myself to some accident.

It's all jumbled, everything I've written you, but only because I want to stay close to you. Will you let me come near you once? Will you let me hold your breath in my eyes, tell me? When I'm not there, nothing matters to you—that very thing hurts me so much, so very much.