on this edge I hear different
things with different ears
the rain in close deserts
the emptiness of hours rolling into
something larger than themselves
your self, my self, their selves trapped nebulae
inside the knife of time carving wise bodies
when the flood of blood gets disconnected from the heart
bodies full of tears recycle the vaults of thought
I am no other than myself frozen in a primordial space,
a shelter for the pain of those I love
sometimes there is "a search for a new transformational object whereby the self seeks to develop, progress and advance to broader and deeper stages of maturation (the progressive as opposed to the repetitive regressive transference) via an intimate relationship with another person".