I think that this is the time of year to be sad.
The thin light, the frail dustings of snow.
Everyone is sick with something, love or death, a lack of magic;
it shows up everywhere on the body:
gathering under the eyes,
cracking the bottom lip,
softening and scratching the voice like strep.
I am sick with you,
sick without you;
somehow I finally understand
and it seems so unfair that it should happen for us this way,
staggered, at different times, on opposite sides of the coin.
Soul mates is a heavy phrase. I am afraid that you cannot
take the weight. Pain and love. Single syllables.
Sharp and poignant both, like shined knives. We had to set
our time aside, and it was like breaking a bone
just to watch it heal.