To Sharmagne
The Ragged Edges of Reality
by Victor Riehl

That sweet sorrow of which is written,
I dared not comprehend nor embrace,
When you departed.
I was content in my private world,
My singularity, that life I planned to find
And seek here yet today.

I do not miss you in pain but in pleasure,
The sharp satisfying awareness
That you signify some thing in my being,
That I grow toward you, follow you, lean into you
Even when I try not
And you are half a world away.

I desire that piquancy of separation
When you are there and I am here.
Without its duality I fear the routine, the sublunary.

So, be there where you are
And be at once here
Where I dream.

I know not what I seek in you
Nor what in another time we might find in each other.
I only know an inchoate sense of longing, of yearning.

It fades when you lie quietly in my arms.




 

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