How is it you are always farther,
the closer I begin to feel?
It seems I am chasing my own shadow
with embracing arms and tearful eyes,
crashing through the briars
and wondering, “Why does it sting so much?”

Surely there is only one world,
and yet somehow we stand in two,
and though the ‘twain may meet,
never may they cross or mingle—
such that I am standing on one shore
of this rushing, nonsense reality
and you stand upon its opposite.

What are words for a bridge, 
when love strikes my reason dumb
and deafer still you seem
to what ardor my muted self allows?
Is this castigation for sins of callow youth,
inflicted blindly and well-meaning on others
when it was first my season to love?

I ask again, uncomprehending,
for my heart is a foolish thing,
incapable of turning from you
or doing anything aside from loving more,
though my eyes grow blurred and dim:
why does it sting so much?