Every minute without you is a pebble in my shoe, I wrote you, not knowing what to call this ache. My chest is a bruised peach. Strange that I should have been complete until the moment I met you. I was astonished, not at your newness, but precisely the opposite: I was astonished because I recognized you, I saw myself in you. They say genius is how quickly you can pick yourself out of a photograph.
When I met you it was as though I realized for the first time that I’d been split in two and I felt, suddenly, the exquisite pain of your separateness from myself. The eternal yearning of Plato’s two-faced, four-legged androgynes for their other halves, which is also how I described to my daughter the way Ariel felt when the sea witch knifed her fin in twain for legs, for love.