I have cut worms in half.
I have put them on hooks
and cast them into the water.

“That is love that wastes a life,”
I thought.
“I will NOT be cut in half.”

But I have seen deserts where little grows.
And that is love that is not

not
willing to
be cut in half when the lover dies.

I walk toward you,
afraid to love you.

So much for cynicism
that says this poem
is for narcissists.
I am pushing against a gale
to
write with my skin
what it is like
to not be alone,
and then,
to be willing to
be,
at the end,
alone.

But not alone.

Maybe to love so much
that missing you
means being cut in half...
is worth it.
Maybe love like that
doesn’t ****.
Maybe it revives.