Worn down, hopeless and dejected—who is with you now?
Who held you when you were told that you were stupid,
when you first learned that you were faulty goods?
Who has held you through the years
of feeling inhibited and repressed,
of yearning for more,
of pretending in order to cover all of the embarrassing awkwardness?
Who holds you when your armour of certainties turn to dust,
when you’re exposed once more,
naked and raw,
with nowhere left to stand?
This One, that’s who: the unnamable, the unlocatable, the undeniable.
This One: who holds all of life in its infinite embrace.
This One: that is being these words and the reading,
this breath and the breathing,
this heart and the beating—
and it’s not blood in the veins. It’s love.