A Man Of Halves Poem by M. W. Taylor

It has been months now.
Months, and I am glad you are gone.
Yet, a part of me wishes you remained.
I am a man of halves.
In the middle of the night, I wake,
and your scent lingers in the air.
I find it hard to remember the fights.
Your lies.
Only the cold, cruel knowledge:
your hand shall not grace my cheek again.
I spend my waking moments at war with myself
fighting to conquer the loss - or my escape - of you.

Your things still litter around my house.
Trinkets I cannot bear to throw away.
My poems of love for you line the walls of my heart.
I cannot bear to burn them.
You were heartless,
so you took mine.