Separated

We are folded together,
fleshed origami

or spaces

between cut-out dolls
where the arms should be.

I warned you
of fusion, of kiss,

of dipping
into bowls
with your fingers,

the reflection
of someone-else
standing behind you
in a mirror.

Only God survives
extrication
(de-bone-ing)

the silvered skein
that shines pearl
and purple.

So we slowly
unravel, a little toy,
a top, a spool of thread,

to become
what we are not-

separated.