James Bay ~ Move Closer
How we gonna move together? Just come closer
If we don’t move together, just come closer
A hazy glimmer here and there, a dropped morsel of understanding, inadvertently left behind by the daydreaming traveller, each glistening clue coveted, retrieved, then hoarded and cherished by the finder of these elusive gems.
I am that hoarder, I am the magpie, deliriously searching,
sometimes perhaps in vain,
for more delights to gather and possessively protect,
hiding each one in turn in the carefully chiselled cracks of my nest.
I look into those fissures every now and again and know that they could be fuller still, so I rearrange the glimmers, warming myself in their glow, placing them just so in an attempt to fill the gaps in my understanding of Him.
But their heat is fleeting, and I draw my arms around me against the creeping chill, well practised in the art of self comfort.
There are times I feel I don’t know Him at all, and I lament that there are blind spots in my occasional tunnel vision.
He can be,
an habitual need born of self preservation,
yet I follow, albeit at a respectful distance, for each glimmer I possess intrigues.
I think He’d be embarrassed if He knew the full extent of the aura He projects.
Whilst sometimes I see Him stoop and curl inwards, uncertainty dogging each step, when upon a wave of confidence He’s buoyed, He stands tall, powerful, a deep epicurean mystery residing within those mesmerising dark eyes.
I am weak beneath Him in those moments when the kinetic wave of His power overwhelms.
My legs refuse to hold me up, my arms remain paralysed by my side, hands too afraid for Him to reach
When He gifts me a glimmer of His own free will, I care for it as if the gossamer thin walls of it’s delicate shell were laced with fragility, and build for it a nest all of it’s own. I cock my head, regarding it with profound curiosity, the very notion of it’s giving still a mystery to me, the understanding of it elusive, it’s meaning far too deep to fully comprehend at a single evanescent glance.
I often wonder, does He feel abandoned at such times,
do I seem,
am I so,
intrigued by the gift He relinquishes that I forget to care about Him in the aftermath?
I often wonder, does He place so little value in himself that He feels these gifts are nothing but fool’s gold and not worth giving, is that the reason for their scarcity?
Does my inability to speak, such is the intensity at those times, place Him under the misapprehension that I don’t value fully that which He gives?
The prospect that that truth exists, even if only in His mind, causes the beating in my chest to falter as if ice suddenly clawed it’s way into my veins.
I fall to my knees, head bowed, breath held, and make for Him a glimmer of my own,
unadorned by unnecessary trappings of false affectation,
These words, here, above, these are my glimmers of understanding for Him.
I pick them up and hold them tentatively in hands outstretched in the hope that He understands that I get it.
What it is to give.
The abject terror,
the sweaty palms,
the air that gets trapped in the chest upon which tremulous words dare to exist.
what it is to carve a little piece of yourself,
what it is to place faith in the hope that the full cost of the giving be appreciated,
what it is to pray the wound left exposed be tended to with care, not salted by disparagement that the value of the blood letting is deemed not high enough.
I understand why He sometimes holds me
at arm’s length.