We are spherical,
Vain
And arrogant;
It took the authority
Of a deity to split us in half.
But we are now empty.
We had once been powerful
Two faces to
Sneer in distaste.
But four arms to
Perhaps feel the warmth of a shared vessel.
Now we search
And yearn
To heal the wound where it pulses and pustules;
There is a maiming of absence,
A hollow ordained for only one shape of longing.
Eros was never futile.
There is still a shape
The wound remembers with each purge of black bile;
We are made to atone
For what had been ripped from us,
And I would like to
Share that amniotic fluid with you once more.