Do you want to know why people find it hard to love me?
Why it’s so hard for anyone to get close to me?
I’ll tell you why.
I’m like the most delicate pane of glass or a paper-thin blade of ice,
Sharp and clear and gorgeous in its delicacy.
But then people are surprised when one harsh breath destroys me,
Melting in the heat of a single hateful word or frightening tone
Or scattering fragments in my anger like mortar,
When some days shine brighter than others and still I manage to waste away.
Like a snowflake, I cannot be grasped;
You must hold out your hand and wait for me to drift in your direction.
Beautifully methodical, a wild fractal, art in science and science in art,
There is no one else like me in all the world, and in mere seconds I will be gone,
Dissolving from your world to return in yet another form,
But only in my own time. You cannot summon me at will.
Perhaps all the many crushing mittens, probing gloves, and gaping mouths
Are the reason why I spend most of my time in the air,
Suspended between earth and heaven, like a spirit or ether
Rather than lying on the surface of the world,
Inert and unknown, to be piled up with the many,
Prone to be broken, dirtied, or lose my sacred form.
A solivagant soul, I am a living ghost,
Eerily haunting to most, beloved but unreachable by friends.
I must wander the earth in search of what, I am not sure.
A ghost I am, but my goal appears as a ghost to me,
Just a touch or a sound, enough to bring me running,
But as soon as I reach the place, the source is gone.
Why so desperately lonely? Why so sad to be always alone?
The hissing voice of this question constantly mocks me.
I act as if I can be strong enough with no one in hopes that I will,
And tell myself I am better off alone because maybe I am.
But my soul gasps for one such as itself, someone out there
Who could love me for me and not leave my depths unexplored.
Is there such a wanderer? And is it only vanity’s selfish dream
To be wanted and loved the same way I want what I’m seeking?
Is it blasphemy, idolatry, to hope for this love from a man?
Could God be the only one who is capable of this love for me?
And if that is the case, then why does this thought
Leave me prostrate at the bottom of an ocean of sorrow?
Am I made for more? Is there somewhere some twin soul of mine,
Whom God has fashioned for me to be with before we were born?
If no lovely thing can ever grow so tall, then why was I born
With this impression in the earth of my soul, well-watered and ready
To be loved and nourished by me with childlike abandon,
Asking only to be clung to with the stubbornness of a winter vine?
Am I only selfish, dramatic, and self-afflicting
To be so loved by a few and yet to feel so unknown?
Or worse yet, is this the pandemic of the many,
That no one will ever feel fulfilled in the arms of another?
What love must I find that I will not be always alone?
If God is with me now, why do I feel like an empty vessel?
Why am I shadow poured onto the wincing face of a sun-drenched earth?
I’m a glowing wisp in the darkest night which none have the courage to follow.
Whom can I love? Whom can I lead? Whom can I touch?
What can I give that will make my soul finally feel at rest?
Why was I given human feet and not angel wings
If I will never be able to comfortably walk with man?
I hate that I am so full of love and potential to give,
A heart full of light and a belly full of fire,
But no one has stricken the rock to make me pour forth.
Is this how the treasure feels that knows it will never be found?
Is this the feeling of bones lying unmourned, alone in the woods?
Is this why I feel like a living ghost, peering in windows at empty faces?
I’m so easy to break and easy to hurt that I try to stay out of the way.
When caught, I gaze up out of my broken pieces to helplessly apologize for the mess.
Perhaps the love of a ghost is too much for most to bear,
For she never leaves your side or leaves you lonely, but she knows too much
And it’s impossible or embarrassing to explain her even to your friends.
An untouchable vapor, I’m at once too much and too little.
So I’ve often lived instead like a genie, making my home
In an ornate bottle, safe from rough handling and even from friends.
When called forth I will always help, with formidable wrath when annoyed.
But as the centuries pass, my cries of loneliness fill the Cave of Wonders
And only dishonest men or their slaves come to flirt with my power
Only to incite my pain or rage and never to set me free.
So I travel the world and take my golden lamp with me,
But empty power is almost as bad, the same old gilded loneliness.
It feels godless and selfish not to have someone to pour out my treasures to,
Someone who is desperately in need of whatever power I possess.
I could never be owned, but I could be wanted, needed, and had.
It feels vain, but I truly feel I could make a broken man a king.
But is earthly love just another gilded cage, without the privacy of a lamp?
For whom could I bear to be bound to the earth, walking instead of flying
Or always returning like a bird to a single place?
Could I do that? Would I be happy that way?
And would I always be welcome, or would I make a man’s heart my home
Only to find it empty and abandoned when I return after far too long?
I want a nest from which I can fly but to which I can return,
Someone with whom I can be safe and warm,
But who also loves to watch me soar and sometimes takes the same updrafts
So we can soar on new heights together, touching the face of our Creator.
Whose wings are strong enough to take this flight with me,
And whose voice so pleasant that I never tire of his twitterings and song?
Among the scientists and artists of the earth, is there an ornithologist among them?
Someone who makes his study of souls, and would not only add mine to a collection?
For whom can I be fascinating? Who has the patience to explore all of my depths
And appreciate every layer without cursing the time it takes to find each one?
And better yet, whose hands are gentle enough to handle my heart without breaking it?
Who would make me his treasure instead of a dreaded, useless vessel?
Maybe I have a purpose. Precious things break easily when incorrectly used.
We don’t break a vase and then yell at glass for not behaving like stone.
Maybe my fragility will cease to be a weakness when I stop apologizing for it.
The ocean isn’t ashamed of its depth because a few are afraid to swim.
Is it too much to wish to stop trying to fit in on the ground
And instead find someone who would join me in the air?
Does anyone else fly these days? I sound like a vagrant fairy.
Is the freedom I seek only another part of myself as yet unknown?
I’m like a bird on the edge of the nest, not afraid of flying but reluctant to go alone.
I’d like permission, I suppose. But with such permission, would I still want a mate?
And when will I feel I have that permission to soar as I’d like to do?
Can I be both one half of a happy pair and one powerful winged whole?
So come then quickly, whether Spirit or wisdom, myself or man.
Heaven speed his progress, and grow this precious dream.
May God bring this ornate locket to be whole,
For what is the finding worth if not for one united purpose?
May I never release my wings to be bound by insufficient human love,
Yet may I find a companion with whom to explore the skies.
