We all probe the aching tooth
with our tongue,
in spite of the accompanying pain.
The sun goes down, and with the warm blanket
of night
comes the cool chill of want;
desire . . .
night-sweats of, "what if?"

You hold yourself.
You wrap your arms around
the screaming child within
and hope
the warm breast-milk of time
enduces
the slumber of acceptance.

You are not alone.

Sometimes pain
can be its own balm.
Even Shiva,
her arms flailing to enact sweeping change,
lives with the ensuing pain
of her differences;
of "not-quite there yet,"
of "I am susceptable to destruction at my own hands."

She tries again,
taking solace
in the warm satisfaction
of being loved.

As are you.

(For a friend)

Joseph Haines, signing off from The Edge of the Abyss.