The embarrassment, oh love. Oh loves of other loves, the shame of grasping after thee with these hands empty of any offering possible and possibly I’m dishonest in my emptiness and depths of dissolution, destitution. Decadent, I once was, now decayed and frayed at edges working inward. Inwardly’s the only place or way I gaze effectively at all as my vision’s slit across the eyes beneath the middle. Do I see thee, love? I cannot know. Do I display me truthfully to thee or do I dissemble? Do I? Do I know? Do I wish to be aware of what I am and do I doo wah diddy and am I that assemblage of obfuscations I despise, despite my efforts otherwise? Oh, I despise these repetitions and these rhymes, these lies I am intending, unintentional. I cannot know. I cannot know thee, love, as I do not know me. Please do not show me what I am as I am dangling from a precipice at an angle can’t be graphed and grasping at and after thee. So do go on to safer surfaces, but no. Come closer. I am empty. I am empty. I am empty, offering.