Mortal

 

(for Brittany)

I want of no god to cure me,
of no angel to balm my pain,
of no saint to show me the way.
Yet I need. 

Give me a mortal, like me.
Damaged, but healing,
shattered, now annealing,
not to perfection, no,
just to whole.

Once brought low,
now merely kneeling
like a racer at the blocks
ready to run
into my arms,
as I am
into theirs,

waiting just
for our eyes to meet
not for the first time,
but
in recognition.