I am complete.
I was not born half,
in that funny sort of way
that people in films talk about,
waiting to find my twin soul,
trying to catch wind between fingers,
trying to hold sand between my eyelashes
on a moonlight night with the hope that I find you,
on that one star beam, that I am not even sure
shone through 500 million light-years of vacuum.
I am strong.
I was not born feeling blue on Sundays.
Complaining about not having hands to hold
when eating ice-cream,
when making lone footsteps on snow-covered slopes
waiting for that sledge that I am sure left these marks,
and just went around the slope with all the warmth
that I held between my forefinger and my thumb,
till they crumbled along with my eyes and my teeth.
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