The half life of the nuclear bomb
is a million years
-give or take a few thousand.
I find this fact as I peruse my folders
looking for my missing half.
I searched already the pictures of you
in my bags, and the jacket from you,
but all I can find is just one half of a broken heart.
Pulsing, I hold it, just thinking, waiting.
I’m quite certain the other half remained
with you the day I left.
Quite certain, though I can’t be sure.
A half a heart has a half life of a week,
two at max.
Two weeks now have passed since I saw you,
my half life maxed.
Meandering through the dreary streets
rain falls, darkness sets in
and I wander, dripping wet,
and hoping, waiting for a feeling,
Wishing to be cold, wet, tired as I ought to be.
Trailing water, slogging, I cross an alleyway,
and I realize,
Without a heart, I am without a feeling.
Like a flower pot without a flower
a wine goblet without the wine,
I, heartless wretch, am also devoid of my essence.
The half life of a nuclear bomb is
a million years, I think,
unable to truly feel the meaning.