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Just Like You


by Nick Bedekovic

I know that you exist.

What more is there to say? Doesn't this innate knowledge complete me?

I am a shiver and the silent smoke, drifting amid the evening sky. In my gentle sway of being lived, I want to surrender to you in my entirety. Ever since I felt your existence. Will you believe me when I say that part of my thoughts has perished? Half-finished sentences cut my surface, the substance leaks formidable drops of my-self - faint, faint echoes of years swollen into this deceptive reality. I make no sense. I am driven by far more than sense alone. It is both beautiful and terrifying, for nothing else matters.

A single taste of you has me swinging on a fresh breath of air. On the mantelpiece memories rest. I feel the dust tickling my nostrils. All evaporates within you. I entertain only the minor tantrums of social constraints. As I said: it is meaningless.

I am firm. My memories are not. The obscure gives rise to a new form.

I hunt for words to capture you. If just a fragment, I will carry you in the bowl of my hands, on the crown of my head, in the core of my chest, forever. And still, you cannot be owned.  I crouch on the ground behind a giant boulder. I press my feet against the hard soil. Tears escape every part of me. It must be the overflow of the uncontainable. Discovering you in my inner experience has me admitting every defeat at free will, yes, seeking defeat just to be in your presence, releasing my wings in full flight, cutting the cord, and breaching any contract with morality, heeding no one as I would readily slash my loyalty with all foils of grass at the prospect of sitting with you for the rest of my life.

I am a butterfly and I cast a shadow upon the moon.

Silence. I deliver myself to you. Empty palms and an open heart. Can it be that you are love too? One final recognition and I do not need one more breath, not one more heartbeat, not one more touch - I already am complete.




The Gift of Meeting Gangaji

The Grace Is in the Giving

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