Why am I thinking of you tonight
when it’s been years ?
Why am I feeling it now,
here, in another country,
suddenly distracted by
the way your hand parted me,
slipping in as if
you were just returning home,
the look of remembering,
that dreamy, certain look
as your hand curved me,
split me into segments ?
And why am I thinking of it now,
when it’s been years,
and I’m whole now,
and in another country
when there’s no need of parting,
of wanting to be half?