we am not a birds.
there is no sky large enough to hold us
and no nest small enough to contain what we were.
i think we’re moving backwards now, cautiously,
unsure of what lies behind us
though we’ve been lost in it all this time–the past,
with all its grievances and wringing joyous hands.
i left palmprints on every surface we passed on our way here
so that i could find my way home again when it ended
(because everything ends) but i forgot the existence of rain,
i neglected to factor in erosion and its hunger,
and now i am forced to my knees as an infant again
finding my way back to a womb that no longer welcomes me.
i have become a sponge
and soaked the emotions of my mentors
greedily, through my pores: am i empath,
compassionate, or a poser? i am not sure
and the loss of you has made me feel erased so cleanly
that any pencil applied could fill in my blanks. i am blank canvas now
but i want my own story.
my hand shakes too much to grasp any pen.
we are holding between us the covers of our history.
the divorce is clean-cut: i’ll take half, you’ll take half,
and neither will make sense without the other.
such is the truth with halves, and i mourn it
but how could we ever be whole again?