On Persistence

We are halved
caricatures.
I am the foil,
the copy to your
original.
With blistered skin
we wait for the crease
of night to fold us in.
Between measured breaths
I cradle my patience,
your damage. Perhaps
I will sacrifice you,
the forerunner, the magician.
Perhaps I will read your lips
while you are sleeping,
crack the code
of your indifference,
swelter in the heat of knowing.
Perhaps we are halved
caricatures of free radicals
in an open shell--
dangerous yet predictable, alone.