I am trying to find something to write.
It can include a lie, but it has to be the right lie.
I miss you.
Last night I dreamed of you and you were so vivid and clear that I woke up and thought: I have to call her.
But who is this you?
"Let be be finale of seems" indeed.
I'm sick of love.
And yet . . .
Do you want me still?
You who are now learning how easy it is to write about the Lord?
There are other lessons, if you are ready . . .
I want to tell you to your face how angry I was when you wrote that all that was left was "logistics."
You cannot give the other space but it is you who are crowded, who longs for "a room of one's own."
Do you see that?
I want you to eat what wells up inside me.
Show me your breasts, behind which the luminous heart of Christ forever whispers.
I want that, too.
For I was briefly - so sweetly - home in you.