How has your heart not split in half?
Lip service ceased being enough long
ago, but here’s one more given yet another pass.
Questions yawn between us like a pass,
the room made chill, divided into your half
and mine. The desolate gap is too long.
This is it, right? It won’t be long,
it can’t, until we can walk tall again, pass
through, no longer bent, as if against the wind, in half—
We’re long past giving that a pass, so stand tall: this half of sky is still ours.
(a tritina with words pulled from the fiction challenge prompt)