You are the distance before me:
Unfurling and bereft.
I am the mystery behind you:
Illuming what you left.

Will you cease
When I am still?

I knew you once as static and concealing,
Choosing to be veiled and unyielding.
Now, between the knowing and believing
I find it is myself I am revealing.

You have given me too much power, and I have given the wrong kind of it to you.

If you fall, can I stand?

You should not let my passion shape the molding;
I should not choose the patterns of the folding.
You should not be submissive to my scolding,
You should not bear the cup that I am holding.