In a shape so clearly made of two halves, a whole,
I wonder now if the invisible line that breaks them
makes them broken like something shattered-
Apart, but not as a quality: the fact of this matter,
of the raw formation,
Broken things ok with being halves of some whole
from which everything flows.
Relative, inexhaustible, yet utterly fragile:
Such is a heart, drawn on a card, painted onto a wall, shaped from plastic
Or chocolate or gelatin.
It doesn’t beat or bleed
It waits to be adored as it was carved,
Round play-thing of symmetry
Shining as if a side is for a single you and the other is for the me struck lonely
Needing this paper heart to be shared.
