What were we thinking when we
tried to break a circle?
Like trying to stop time
or a stampede of pure-white horses.

To presume that the air was somehow
different when we exhaled
through tears, like you are not
a panacea; memory now
is mine once again.

What was anger for not-you,
for everything but you and me:
that cursed thought
that we were the same
being, one half a piece of someone,
should have shown me true.
It was not outside my reach.
But to finally lay
hands upon you cannot be denied.

Penned by my hand on the 10th of Mayan, in the year 320 AF.