Fault Lines

 09/2025 (c)

On paper the lovers would likely have not

felt the attraction, their uniqueness seen more

as disparity than as harmony.

One of them is a tempest. An updraft. A whoosh.

Another is a soft rose. A square of velvet.

There is water. Sometimes stagnant.

There is fire and there is stone,

 

What split-off personalities do I need to re-unite?

 

I recall the obsessions, the perfect fit

of two hands touching

as though touch were a new thing.  

Turning his off-hand remark into a koan,

into a worry stone.

I recall the ideal weather,

the luminescent being whose flaws

didn’t require forgiveness—

their fault lines were perfect. 

 

Part of my soul is a tamed bird.

Part is a wagon wheel.

Part prefers solitude.

The other is already looking for a way out.