It’s written in books that
in order to find yourself
you need to cut yourself off,
to leave and to go out into the wild,
on your own.
I’ve found that the opposite is true:
I’ve only known myself since I started loving you.
To find myself is to know
what it means to love,
with its vines of messy, knotted imperfection.
I couldn’t do this by myself.
For what is the self but love?
And what is love but a tangled bridge
between two arid shores?
Joshua Seigal
