This vast, great emptiness is warm, sun-drenched, soil coursing through my cold veins. I can’t, for the life of me, find Me here. Everything is almond cake. This heavy-scented silence is days of quiet, running-rain oil-soaking this dry, old skin. I can’t, for the life of me, find You here. Nothing wears its own face. In this sweet, bewildered state You drip your best wine, deep into my hungry, milk-weaned heart. I can’t, for the life of me, find Us here. There's no more Me and You. How is it, then, that You seem to hold me so fast?
Something I wrote a few years back. It was published in the Sumer 2018 edition of the Sufi Journal magazine. This version is slightly different.