I want to fill this space and get in the habit

I sometimes write what I call aprose. I think of it as, not prose, or emaciated prose. I wrote the following a little while ago and when I look at I see it contains truth, but not the whole of truth.

Though I weep in self-pity

For the loss I feel

I know that I tried so hard

Yet still could not find

My way

Into the presence of Love

I felt turned away

To walk alone

For a time

To the sound of my footfalls

Then I noticed yours

Had joined me

And my hand was held