Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion

The Moon above the Mountain

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moon over mountain

Sometimes you are the moon above my mountain. Glowing and set on the stage of my skyline.

Sometimes I think I created you for my own suffering—to set myself apart and be made into loneliness.

For without loneliness how could union become?

Sometimes I think I made you into this untouchable longing—to keep myself reaching and yearning.

For without desire how could satisfaction live?

Sometimes I know I found you as the answer to my ache—to press your image upon my love-sick heart and wish for you in completion.

For without living as half, how could I be made as whole?

Sometimes I know I have made this world with you in it, so in my striving I will not forget my failings—to wish again and again for your unavailable attention.

For without missing your return, how could I recognize adoration?

Sometimes the way in which you move me is uninterrupted in that everything I do and say involves the foundation of finding you—filling myself with your beauty.

For without breathing your essence, how could I exist?

Sometimes the way in which you enter my mind is like a wild cat chasing her tail—scratching and biting at something that is there in the background.

For without the looking back, how could I look forward?

I am this woman with you, and without you.

I am this woman dialing your name to the stars and coming up short.

With no place to enter except back into the hollowed out parts—the caves of missing you.

Until the sun comes, and he is not you. He is but the part of you removed. He is the continuing onward without my hand in yours. He is the essence of strength. The one built from the tower I allowed to crumble in your memory.

Sometimes I think you were made for my growing—set out and standing in my exact line of vision—the puzzle piece I required.

For without you, I was forced to find myself.

Sometimes you are the moon above my mountain. Lighting the way home.

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