When we’re young there’s lots

We don’t know about

The beloved:

How he or she is only housed

Briefly in this or that body.

Mostly, the beloved is the world,

But we’re not ready to see

That yet, not able to bear

The idea that the beloved

Won’t necessarily gaze back at us

With eyes like ours, won’t

Wrap us in his or her arms.

We want risk, but comfort, too,

Comfort most of all.

We’re still clinging to our loneliness,

Not yet ready to be alone.