You're not the bobble that I left,
Just the healing I forget,
Just the hook.
You're not the line,
You're not the tow.

You're not the hours that I sleep,
Just the darkness of the deep,
Just the book.
You're not the turn.
You're not the close.

Will I walk?
The tempers rise.
And at my best, the heater dies,
Becoming breath,
By easy dance,
One with the field.

Of mirrored love,
And ego cries,
Feel buried truth as sown to rise.

A letting go,
As water flows,
Become the Yield.