I.
gravity
helps me realize
where exactly
you are.

and newton,
well newton
for all his
hang ups on
the temptations of
eve,

i guess got
it right
first:

what separates me
and you
and the rest of the world
is not
hope or magic

but rather
the pendulum swings of
chance

(arbitrary force)

the oscillations maybe
of a rickety train platform
on which our
footprints
converge, diverge,
and resonate

like naturalized frequencies.

II.
frankly,

i

don't want to talk
about the physics of it all.

i just want to sit
alone,
on the steps of this train
station,

and gently soak in the
clickety clacks
of these intersecting lines.

i

just want to
watch
as their doors open
and close,

and feel the rhythms
of their machinated dance,
and

sort the footsteps
that sift out
according to shape, color,

distance.

III.
as we speak,
i have already begun
to count
how many
stops

still separate

you.

and i.

I once met a young bloke
Who went about life as everyone went about theirs
He was kind, gentle, and
a little bit different than everybody else
But a lot more the same as everyone else

One day, at the brink of dawn..
He said "I'm Dying to go to college!"
and when he did
He said "I'm dying to get to work and earn my own Money!"
and when it was so
He said "I dying to get married and have kids!"
and so he did, and when he did!
He said "I'm dying to get my kids grow, and have their own jobs!"
and he did make it happen.

But finally when he was too old to do the many things,
too frail to keep running and jumping like he used to,
He said "I'm dying to retire"

and when he finally did
He said "I'm dying..."
and at that moment ----
He realized that all those years ---
He had forgotten to live.

May You, O God, be praised.
The God of Jacob, of Israel, of all nations, may You be praised.
May Your glory abound through Your creation, proclaiming your majesty.
May Your love be evident through Your perfect provision and care.
May those who stumble in the darkness be shown Your face.

May You use me as a light to those who are lost.
May You use me to accomplish Your perfect will.
May You keep me on the path of Your righteousness though my heart wanders.
May You keep the joy of Your truth alive in my spirit though my soul is downcast.

My soul is black and void and I long for Your light.
I stumble and fall while men and demons torment me.
I yearn to be raised up by Your hand, to be held in the refuge of Your strength.
I turn and run to desires that will not satisfy.
Draw me back to Your arms and fill me with Your living water.

Your love, O Lord, is beyond comprehension and worthy of all praise.
Your grace, Oh my God, exceeds all that is deserved.
And I can never thank You enough.

I have hands that won’t keep
to themselves.
They are always rummaging
and dancing and clapping
and snapping and opening
and closing and trying to fix
every
single
broken thing they can find.

And that includes you.

My heart is a bottomless pit for aches.
Not mine, but yours.
It’s almost a cursed thing, how
despite its size being only that of my fist,
my heart always finds a way to squeeze in
some new hurt into the spaces that
before you,
I never knew existed.
There they stay;
and like all things that stay,
with enough time,
become part of their surroundings.
I can’t tell whose cut is whose anymore.

Put me in a room full of people.
Blindfold me.
Spin me like a tornado.
Make me stop.
My outstretched fingers will be reaching
for the most broken souls in the room.

Call it compassion. Kindness. Empathy.
Whatever you like,
but there is a fine, fine line between that
and the way I bleed.
Oh,
how I bleed.
Forgive my boldness when I say
I won’t even try to make you understand
the fact that I do
somehow
understand.
Think of it this way: ripples.
And I always get the last one.

I’m still a child.
I like to play pretend.
I’m a doctor.
I’m a superhero.
I’m the one with all the answers,
all the weapons,
all the magical cures.
Take that!
And that!
Ha! Aha! Ha!
Ha…
Ha.
As the years wear on,
I see that my tools aren’t right,
and that my cape is too tight around my neck.
I don’t have all the answers.
No weapons.
No magical cures.
I’m just a girl trying to play the part that was never hers.

And it’s taken me three volcano boys,
a couple of glass-bottomed hearted girls,
and just about the rest of the world to realize that I
am not
the Savior.

My hands were not made to heal
every heart they rest themselves upon,
or to fill that vacuum inside every man,
one that nothing,
nothing,
nothing in this world will ever
make
whole.

So here.
I let go of every burden that’s been
causing me to stoop and to stumble,
every pressing weight that’s been
keeping me from keeping faith,
every heavy yoke that’s been
causing me to choke on things
I never should have let in
in the first place.

Yet I will continue to love you.
I have come to learn that love
has a lot of ugly before it becomes beautiful,
a lot of hurt before healing’s arrival,
a lot of you before any of me.
My part is done.
These fidgety fingers no longer carry suffering.
Here, let me see yours, though battle scarred and bruised.
You’ve been bearing more than you were built for, beloved.

I think it’s time to surrender.