Individual suffering is ineffable, really.
Nobody ever comprehends it.
I touch your face, sleeping—
Its lines deepen with disappointment.
Your face, touched only when you are absent,
Its cloven sorrows apparent even in sleep—
How could love bring me to the brink?
You and I are married by sadness,
What you grant me day to day is willed.
I seek love governed by compassion,
Felt it, truly, part of every day—
Now I hate you in furlongs and fathoms
For the weakness that carved a crevice in your face.