Here

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.

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