There's a fear, a soft fear, familiar fear that truth comes from, bearing its contemplative eyes, awash in a blue solace which glints in front of me and steals my breath in its shallow raspiness. ...and as sure as the moon promises me petite glowing crescents which validate my meager existence and remind me to sleep each night, she will come to me, hands upturned in a waiting gaze, as if hands could see. She will reel me in and make me weak; make me need her touch; down deep where it aches to be alive.

Down deep where I never want to go-- that place. That place that swims in a circle beneath my contemptuous virtue that keeps the sweet pink juices and calm blue skies out of my heart and into the strong box near to the beating palace but never in it.

Wondering where I go, I'll be spinning around like a small child beating a grotesque rendition of a clown or a star made of papier mache which promises shiny gifts of candy to make me feel good and sweet, if only for a moment. Then she is gone and the blindfold is returned to me, as if I would ever ask for it, and someone, maybe a silvery angel, hands me a long stick with the branches freshly cut off so that there are still moist bases and I'm spun until I can whack the paper toy, which is like her, so I search and search while the others tease me, push me, yet somehow encourage me to yield her sweet insides.

I can call to her, but she doesn't answer. I can gaze into her, saying inside me what I can't say out loud-- that I'm in deep with her, and my heart is open to her to be ignored by her, to be stepped on and passed by, but waiting for her to come around to me, mist over me and make everything all right, promising me solace in her arms, in her eyes, her lips.

I am reborn inside her, and to feel her feeling me, swallowing me, sends me reeling, spinning, knowing I'll always be back for more.