My Lie and the Lover

So here is the lie I have been believing lately: that God does not individually know nor love me. I don't know when I first started believing the lie, it must have crept in subtly, like the gradual setting of the sun. Only when my faith got near the horizon, near total submission beneath the hill did it become obvious.

Like the constant touch of a love
is the hand for which I long,
and I know not how it comes
nor the being to which it belongs.
But I know without lie
that for it I long
because with it I
am so inexorably intertwined
that its absence takes with it
my very essence of being.
And I long for it though
I don't even know
how it comes,
nor even what it is.

They talk of it
as if they hate it.
They tell me it is a monster
that subtly rips my flesh
and leaves me
a dry shell in its
prison of a belly
that cares not for me
nor my will but only
its hungry appetite.
And sometimes I shrink from it;
I don't know what it is.
How can I love it
when I don't even
know what it is
nor from where it comes?
I wait in the dark
as they curse it and hate it,
and in fear and trembling I wait alone
because I do not know.

But though this creature remains
hidden beneath the dark
I now know this:
that to it I became married,
and its flesh and mine
intertwined
in a pain that withdraws
and expands and makes room
for the creation of old and new
past, present, and future
and all that is
in a strange morph;
it is inside me.
I will sacrifice myself
every day as I wait
for this love in the dark
for this hand of the thing
which I do not know
what it is nor from what it comes.
I wait for this one
in the dark
for whom I know
I can no longer
live without.