Everything looks better in half-light, consider
the face of an aging lover reflected in memory,
early morning after a night of rain, the sunlight
caressing dewy buds that open into warm tears.

Likewise all things spoken in half-truth have
a sort of Cartesian honesty - we love
therefore we are - I bleed therefore I am,
if only for a moment in the aftermath.

Is it logical to believe that pain follows
a law of half-lives from day to day reduced
by half, the burden of immeasurable grief
assuaged across the solace of the years?

And here I lie half-naked at midnight, reliving
your seductions, recalling the angles of your face,
a lifetime no respite from the pain.
The bisected heart beats slow then dies in place.

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