Half of my person,
my ghost, my own;
though you are outside in the
wind through bare trees blown—
near thoughts in the mind—full,
on edge a clear glass of water in
my saliva, in my throat,
as each word
from my mouth is spoke—
half of me yet all,
and gone, not long,
—as they go,
dissolve, a division in sight…
Happened, half-dead, I am froze;
all is night,
…and only half of something,
hair, eyes, flesh, hands, and plight.
The makeup of my life,
When I was younger sunlight seemed more bright.
Wind chimes resound outside in the cold,
as you whisper this to my better half.