it's easy to feel, it's easy to feel/but it's not good enough even though it's real

Aotramachd
B’ e d’aotromachd a rinn mo thàladh,
aotromachd do chainnte ’s do ghàire,
aotromachd do lethchinn nam làmhan,
d’aotrmachd lurach ùr mhàlda:
agus ’s e aotromachd do phòige
a tha a’ cur trasg air mo bheòil-sa,
is ’s e aotromachd do ghlaic mum chuairt-sa
a leigeas seachad leis an t-sruth mi.

Lightness
It was your lightness that drew me,
the lightness of your talk and your laughter,
the lightness of your cheek in my hands,
your sweet gentle modest lightness:
and it is the lightness of your kiss
that is starving my mouth,
and the lightness of your embrace
that will let me go adrift.

-- Meg Bateman

These are the words that have been calling me this evening; they echo in my heart.

(It's odd, the way my friendships cemented by poetry burn bright & fierce, & how I nonetheless hesitate about sending people love poems - for fear of giving the wrong impression, perhaps, but while I'm concerned about being misunderstood that's not about the romance but more, I think, about fragility; & doubly so for those I see maybe once a year, in passing, in a mess of Scrabble & laughter & cookery & late-night conversations murmured between the bed & the sofa after we've already said goodnight; where e-mails often go astray, because we're like that; where I'll hear nothing for months on end followed by "survived hurricane, work continues well", or "arriving in UK tomorrow morning; can I stay with you?" Sometimes calling out into emptiness - to hear the echoes of my heart - is too much vulnerability, I suppose. -- & this is, of course, where I try to make a joke of myself, insert a self-deprecating remark about not being let near the Internet after I've had my bedtime meds, but actually I mean this, every word of it, & I think it's worth saying. If I'm not comfortable baring my soul in private I may as well in public, I suppose.)