In love, deeply in love
but yet still vacantly feeling
the cold stone of my soul.
Once again,
sucker punched by experience.
Baited into an intimacy,
only to expose
more emotional vulnerability
in blind-spot ways.
Oops, a gut wrenching trap door
unexpectedly opens
then liquid feelings
spilled all over
the relationship floor below.
Note to myself;
have to bonsai
my blurted intimacy expressions
out to the world of closeness.
For then,
I am my own sweaty shears
of limiting self-criticism.
My apparently irrational assumptions
are stem barbed
before they top blossom.
Somehow, I seem to cut
into my growing towards the light.
The vase of me gets larger
with cuttings of feelings
upon anyone’s approach.
At first glance I appear to myself
as a small weed
in a passage patch.
No need for a second glance
is expected
from anyone in passing.
Yes, I am organic,
but in an ever diminishing way.
And like a sinking stone of soul,
I am always falling within
at a rate too steep
for even barnacles of light
to gather and grow.
It is too remote
for even an emotional subterfuge
to provide for a glance,
for anyone in passing.
A soul-stone sunk in the so cold
that if grasped by another
would cause immediate
emotional frostbite to the other.
A soul-stone so cold to me
that I forget about warmth,
even as a memory.
A cold that is its own religion.
A cold that has no signature
legible from even shadow.
A cold that is my soul,
feeling alone,
free falling,
as this,
the cold stone of soul . . .
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