Soulmate
makes me think of dover sole these days.
Happily Ever After has gone stale
One and Only, Forever and Ever —
they smell foul,
smug, over-fed,
their appeal expired.
Instead, my mind is reeling
with threads they tell me
must be cut clean one day.
You say they have to snap and strain
but how can you bring scissors
to something spooled so tightly
about my heart and brain?
To cut a thread would be
to slice a heartstring,
excise a morsel of my soul,
if one line came free –
how can I know?
Sewn into twisted lobes they reign,
thought-cud,
each a pebble on a beach retrieved and
worn smooth by a nervous thumb,
leaching life-blood
I give, and succumb.

Poem by I. Daniel. Illustration by Léa Gayer de Mena.