How seperate you are,
newly born,
spasmed at last from the womb,
bloodied and new;
the cold, your trauma,
the shocked breath you draw,
bellow your utter selfhood
to the world.

How seperate you are,
closest love;
no one-ness we, only
our differing selves
make love possible;
only when you are most
completely you can I
entirely love you.

How seperate you are,
one who died,
even more other-than-me
as a corpse than when
alight with life;
more absent than a snuffed
flame, the candle living
to burn again.