The idea that I will ever truly know you is elusive in itself,
I try to wrap my mind around the essence of you
but I only capture my image of what I aspire for you to be.
The idea that I can ever understand the being of you,
gets lost in the fragments of memory.
The memory of how your face looks when it is angry,
how you are when life is tragic,
the look on your face when you misunderstand everything about me.
For God's sake I barely know myself,
halfway through my life and I feel like an infant.
But you,
you are the mirror of my intimacies,, the rule I often judge myself by.
If I have such little knowledge of my self, how can I compare to the image I
project onto you,
that is me?
Your touch is me
Your heart is me
Your blood is me
Your familiar, yet there are so many parts, like me
I have no knowledge of.
There they are to exist with out my input.
It is extrodinary what lies underneath,
the magic and touch,
the taste and scope that remains,
just beyond our grasp....
but that which is wholly you and I,
forever

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