This is a poem that I can't write yet,
I find that I don't know this truth—
I only know that it rings true
with all its resonance inside of me
All I know now is the melancholy
of holy waiting—the ache of longing...
Longing to belong to someone,
someone who is mine like no one else
I want to ring all the bells
inside someone else's soul—
to give them my soul and body
for always. I want them to stay...
My biggest fear is that someone
would know me—all of me—
and then leave, taking my soul
and breaking my heart to death
Will I ever learn that
the waiting is also the gift
Or will I simply feel
like it is always the hardest part?
Will I ever get to fully give
someone else my open heart
and have them care for it? Will they stay
when who I am should scare them away?
If waiting is all there is
Lord, help me to know it as gift.
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I wrote this in March 2022. Though quite a few things have shifted in my life since then, I still feel like this is a poem I can't write yet. —JB
