trying to let the wonder of Your Love
splash inside my chest --
but you can tell
it's not the real thing:
the curves are not as smooth as yours,
and you can see the stitches,
the places where it wasn't right:
I had to gather here
and let it out a little there.
And then there are the bleach spots,
the times I tried to wash away
the anger and the fear,
and, overzealous, removed the color, too.
And then I hear your voice:
ah, my dear -- so critical,
so hard on yourself.
Of course your splashes will be different:
they are real, and reality will always have its flaws.
Rest a moment, my love, and ride the wave;
See how closely it resembles my ideal, and rejoice.
* * *
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