Ignorant of the whole, one cannot mourn the loss of the half,
Despair has no foothold, loneliness no grip,
Until that half is found, recognised, loved.
And lost.

Is a half, unaware that it is such, then whole?
And on discovering that it has only ever been but one of two,
Must it forever live its half-life
With no hope for completion, for fulfilment?

copyright Vicki Watson 2013