Bright, alive and, surely
I am not wrong in saying,
welcoming.
Your face, your heart, your hands.
Your eyes, yes your eyes;
measuring the distance between us,
while making up for it in your expression
which holds me like a tractor beam,
overcoming all my fear.
Stupid, stupid, stupid is my
self-assessment, my self-loathing
as I stand in the shine of your presence.
Yet, I cannot leave. I don’t belong
here. Nevertheless,
I know you would be hurt,
and feel I abandoned you
if I left.
So, I stay.
Uneasy privilege.
Joyous interloper.
Backwards companion.
Louis Templeman
Written while contemplating an artist’s conception of the fifth Glorious Mystery
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