Scored in Bread

What am I to do with
this lack of You that
haunts my every
breath.

You take residence in
my soul as sorrow;
in my body as hunger;
in my mind as I find
myself dreaming You
again and again.

And yet.

I tasted You at table;
saw You scored in bread;
felt my thirst slaked
for a time as you sated softly
my ache for Your making
me into a host to Your
visitation.

You sit across from
me now wholly
strange, and yet
so intimate that
my tears Yours, and
Your tear, me.