Between folds, you miss that next to you, that feeling of partness.
Shabby imitations of connection, of warm residence.
In a loud place, when you lean in, eyes mirrored
just listen to the hearts soft lullaby.
Tighter, can't be closer, breaths pacing,
sleep takes over before we let go.
Same pillow, same shirt, same couch, same cup, same spoon, same sink, same beer, same heart.
can this be.
So is half missing or waiting?