Any angel has a compulsive nature past pushed. A knowing face too complex to clean and feed. Flowers, leaves, and weeds picked clean the seconds they were made of. She was a star at an excitable pitch until extinguished by anguish. Drifting along all the busy bodies convulsing their song into stitches. Dimples melting down either side a curved cheek entrances with transitions. Bodies tremored with strain of collared ideas. They talk about this all the time at the clinic: collapsing mind and body into a single entity. Whistling with respect they manage to work up a pathology—not only if the entrails are still attached.

The term “better half” has me confused, as fairy tales often do, presenting an ever-after of overwhelming silence. Unified it’s like the sea collapsing. The sky outside has a chemically vibrant color. Today I have noted this to begin the process of unpeeling a separate self. This helps to focus positional speaking; to create through dialogue a shared moment without becoming a contradiction. I have heard the phrase “of the same mind” which I take to mean the stitching together of a costume, like a sloppy hand puppet. This is what is often offered (unrequited) as some better self.