Stalagmite and Stalactite

Sick with grief at missing you,
suddenly completely realizing
that parting was the truth,
the whole and only, nothing but,
your chosen choice, your closing
of all the doors and windows
of the home that we,
stalagmite and stalactite,
(which is which doesn’t matter)
fashioned of our cave,
I’ve become an open wound,
a pond where ice is forming
scab upon the sore of emptiness.

Searching for divided truth,
broken, now two sides to it,
(Did you flip a coin?)
I find revelation on the edge
of two flat earths,
now lying back to back,
where, before that toss,
we were face to face.

The parting of the two
into one and one
is parting of the truth,
wishbone snapped apart
without wishing,
empty fortune cookies,
fortuneless.

Now homeless in this loneliness,
evicted from the planet’s earth,
I ‘m faced with winter in the void,
where there’re no seasons of the spirit:
no spring of hope,
no fall, the other compromise
only fading memory of summer, you,
no prospect of transition
from here to anywhere,
but winter of the heart.