Sometimes you are the better half, and then you are the whole pie, and then you feel like you are missing THE better half, but the missing is all-sweet, nothing sad or bitter about any of it, and parting/meeting is a bit like waves rushing to the shore, then pulling away. We meet in silence and we meet in celebration, we inch ever so close, even closer… and yet we are universes apart. Love is never complete because there are two halves to the pie. And yet it feels that I am the dreamer who dreamed him up. And he is pure camphor, leaving no traces behind. And it is I who dreamed him up, swallowed him whole, and all his traces are in me alone.
The approach to you is rather tanglesome —
A thin cotton quilt, two thick, woolen blankets, a plump comforter, you.
It’s all layered nice and neat as the lights go out
And thereafter a little unrest ensues.
As the layers meld, then separate, splitting apart
Splitting us apart.
I reach out through the gaps, clasping and grasping at your bony elbow
You are better at this — because your arm makes it through.
It is far warmer nestling in the crook of an elbow.