2a dark one,
a long one.
a figure
at the end of the tunnel
bathed in light
from the back
so as not to see their face.
i run
to the figure
the strong point,
the tall point.
my arms
that are thrown about them
find nothing
but gaping black
my hands are groping
the overwhelming blackness
the figure
is gone.
my heart
it breaks slowly,
it breaks sharply.
i stand back
my face a mask
of dismay and longing
for that figure
is what i'm missing
my missing piece.
so i run to the figure
every time,
any time.
and every time
the figure vanishes
like a feather on a windy day.
and i am left
with the same ache.
then, one day
some day
a future day
i realise i am lost
and need someone to find me.
but i need to have a part
in finding that someone.
i can not just wander through
the tunnel
that is a great cylinder
in life
without putting in an effort
to be found.
and so i try
try hard,
try without rest.
every day
i am left with the same ache
the same hole
the same longing
until one day
they come
without me knowing
with me looking
but not seeing
yet suddenly
i look,
i see.
and back into my tunnel
i run towards them
stretch out my arms
fall into theirs
hold them close
as they hold me back.
and i turn my head
against their chest.
and i can feel their heartbeat
beating steadily,
beating life.