How desperately we pray to find the copy of ourselves

uniting in marriage or promise

only to be discouraged that our One is not perfected in reflection.

We tear at Love’s face

ripping apart original designs

keeping only what fits our expectations

smearing that which disgusts us

not realizing what we kill is what we need.

“I do not want you anymore,” is what we cry

believing our One does not own precise qualities

our hearts desire.

Not until we know

there is no human that can fill our own skin

and we are born alone and walk alone and die alone

Not until we know

can we accept the gift of surface glaze

which seals the painting to protect

carefully placed brushstrokes

of fingers upon lips

that hush our frenzied hunt for another copy of us.

Not until we know

can gratitude replace loneliness.