As most couples do, we split apart, halved and quartered ourselves
into smithereens and mosaics of something
that was less like love, and more like salt.
We were thirsty for it, in the beginning.
Skin on skin, finding our ways into each other
like pit into the peach, like a knife drives home into soft wood,
into unyielding flesh. Used to live knee-deep in each others’ minds.
But a map is just a map and its lines never cease to bring forth
a contour, just as your fingerprints and mine
were never a match for one another, as hard as we tried,
as much as we wanted to be compatible.
It was never a war we both fought, but one we waged separately,
who would sleep on the couch and who would sleep in the bed.
That’s all it was, toward the end.
And then someone wished, and pulled apart the bone,
the wish was granted,
and we ended up alone.
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Wishbone
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