“It would be lovely if you were not a stepping stone but my full stop.”
And if the end can be a beginning,
but not like death (beginning decay) for that comes anyway.
“If a person became your home.”
As if the self were stabilised, like a place,
and seeing these possibilities as a prism.
A person you leave but know you’ll return to –
and somehow not a prison.
“I feel safe with you.”
And of the tugs at my being?
The cursed reeds which pull and wind as desire-looms,
underpinning, stronger for not saying and
fully below the seeing?
Will these then be unimportant or just accepted
as real, like all the things we momentarily feel?
Is this comfort, love, something chosen not given?
Are you my full stop?
And that to this end, from this end,
is this stop our beginning?
