The way the wax makes love to the wane: this is the faithfulness you are held with.
What if there's a non-Hasidic version of every Hasid just waiting out there and living their own life?
I know the words to the niggun when you think you’re only saying ai yai yai.
On transformation - and the space in between all the stops along the way.
There is an oceanic pain-knowing, a tide no soul should ever be made to swim against.
A neighbor prosecutes God and love from her 10th floor balcony.
And you know that the secret ingredient is the refinement of your soul found in the knowing that all of this won’t last.
