Who is this woman?
--this bundle of grief and hope and childlike coffee?
Who is that little girl?
Where did she go astray?
Who is this rose in a coffee shop?
What is this bundle of veins and nerves and fatty tissue that constitutes her heart?
Why is it empty? Why is it full? What is it full of?
Shame. Anger. Hope. Love. Blood.
It's an automaton, this body.
Just keeps moving and squishing and forcing continuation.
Is it the body that endures, or the mind?
Or neither?
What endures? Pure love. Selfless love.
Does selfless love hurt? Or does it become further refined through adversity?
Can it be battered and dented, or does a blow glance off it, hitting and severing heartstrings and synapses?
Does it fossilise or crystalise? I think not. It just is.
My new refrain--it just is.
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