For even the smallest hole may feel bottomless
if carved out by another’s less than gentle hand.
Every fluttering page, brick, case, or feast
that you’ve used to mend the hollow
only makes weary walls creak
beneath a pressure never invited,
now a (not so welcome) guest.
You’ve even learned to ration your love
into morsels no larger than pencil shavings,
feeding your ravenous craving with meager meals
not fit for any budding soul.
Were you to just abandon the dread
that you think keeps you from a famine,
you would find that full banquets of love
never diminish from returning visits,
but only surge and grow
as you help yourself to more.