They call it many things. It broke. It heals.
It sits as two separate pieces in you,
zygotes and arrangements of loose events, facts.
words. 

Although I’m tired of being told
what it is, and what it isn’t. Explanations
hang like motes of air,
made wet from lungs.
A tree falls in love with its topmost branch.

Nobody is satisfied.

Pieces of me move toward each other,
Formless intimacies, a cold thing,
a sharp thing. Some warmth, a jagged
protein crystallized in its own breath.
they move laterally
across fields of ungraphed skin, vertebrae,
the absurd parabolas and equations of
my body,
these many painful origins
of brokenness,
of words.

It’s everywhere, taking. A tree falls in love
with its topmost branch. The topmost branch
is still reconciling its broken heart. There it is again. Broken.