The Longing of Halves

Beneath a moonlit grass patch, a rose awaits

bloom in silence:

an image about to be born

an eyelid about to open.



Dewdrops, damp, settle on a blade like

a tear:

waiting to be unearthed,

to evaporate into the sky-stare,



and rejoin as rain flurries--

the water-need that

entombs us,

drowns noise in absence-liquid.



Crystal-clear nightriver

washes echoes elusive;

a sound erodes into

slippery halves

that, floating away,

lean in each other's direction.



The longing of gods.





The reason we love.

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