When the comet split into two
I watched it fall in suspended motion
held in time as if guided by an imaginary hand
pushing one wave over the next
in a slow descent – then, finally
a crash, somewhere off-site
shrouded by the thick canopy –
an exhale so dense, such heat,
it fogged up the inside of the windshield.
Remember that one time we sat
inside your car and watched
it all unfold? How
in the madness, hot and heavy, we
collided, split, then fell back into each other?
It was a grounding moment, I must admit,
to realize that pain was never administered
by a single hand, but instead two –
a pair of fortunate misfortunes, everywhere we look:
telephone poles that stand with their wires
entangled; a set of chopsticks
split at the chest and held together by sheer will;
the heart line running across your palm
that cracks and breaks into perfect halves.
When the comet split into two
I looked over to where you were sitting
and saw it dance in the light of your eyes.
You saw the world, you started to tear,
but despite every half that existed in the world
your hand found mine and overwhelmed it.