Life is too short for boring stories

“It is good that you are here,” I say while I entwine around you with my arms, and you accept the embrace gratefully.

“I thought, I don’t come,” you say abruptly without interrupting me in my encirclement.

“I’ve invited you,” I say.

“I know. I just did not know if you meant it,” you say quietly.

“I meant it that way,” I say.

“It can be. Maybe I just thought about the pain, and I did not know exactly whether I wanted it,” you mean thoughtfully.

“What pain are you talking about?” I ask, interested in you, anyway, but also in your thoughts.

“You are digging into me, rummaging inside me, sticking into me like a knife and turning it in the open wound, turning the bottom of the top,” you answer quietly.

“I do not want to harm you. I want to heal you, but healing is only possible when you go the way over  the reopening of the wounds and cleans them, “I say.

“And the pain will pass?” you ask uncertainly.

“The pain will not only pass away, it will leave you and it will be possible for you, to see the home, that I want to be to you, in which you will find security, when you have made a reconciliation with yourself, when you are ready to accept you as I think you are, to see you as you are,” I say, feeling your heartbeat wind down.

“Then, yes, then sting, cave me, and fill me again,” you summon me.

And I am drilling me into you, to the deepest point of your inner being, to heal you and make you a whole.

The pain escapes.

The rest comes.

We see.

You see me and I see you.

Finally, as we are.

And I ask you to heal me.

The pain escapes.

The rest comes.

We see.

I see you and you see me.

And while the moonlight softly flatters your slender body and the living, flickering fire in the fireplace conjures glowing fire into your eyes, I know that love is the pain, that can only be overcome by love, I know,  that the ultimate goal is a state of behomed In which we must be frankly exposed and uncompromisingly accepted.


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