My ideals were ideas that made my heart throb, not beat. The ache did not have a real answer, for the “answer” kept himself elusive. The reaching for “him” overtook the reaching inward. The next “he” became a mark for my parts to aim for, no matter how much he bobbed and weaved, or fully ran. Then there were those who wanted to be the sacred ache’s “answer”, but fell short of the calling, for they could barely answer their own. Then I became the one who bobbed and weaved as t