A Morning's Cry

Ever fall in love with someone vulgar, someone repulsive, someone wrong?
Ever let him crack open like bulletproof glass, fragmenting, concealing, holding -
each hurt blinding to the eye, they make hell shine?
Ever allow his mirrors to show you what you got, what you can be, what you may be missing?
Ever tried to edge closer, then, losing your foothold, fall into a cruel efficiency?

The lover is fiction.
The fiction is kind.
The kindness is grief.
And grief, like matted mangroves, merciful and merciless, dreamless, real.
No one survives.
All is transformed.
Some, by grace of God's justice, transfigured.
To be worshipped breeds disconnection.
To be loved is mercy.
To love, a life's journey.

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