I will take trying and failing to a half life, with safe half loves, any day.

Half of halves, portions and chunks of this or that heart.

A tearing off of you, a piece ripped from that one or this one.

So when I leave, there is a dull ache of one who has lost
a limb, a scab. When you leave, I miss one portion of my body.

No.

When I leave, I want you to feel the missing. When you leave, I want to feel with every every bit I have.

Take it all, so when you have left there is a deep gut-wrenching emptiness-- because I risked what having this means. You risked this (being oh so known by me).

Anything else but this is mocking what your heart has been made capable of.

I choose nothing if not this.