prison wing

I sometimes talk to you in mind.
Although in time
and distance, we
have grown so long so far
apart. The person that you grew
in me, back when we always turned
to each, from each we gave our finest
self, and often more
than probably there was
to give - a dim homunculus
took form and root, and grew
and shaped itself in horse
manure and loving seed

and even then, when you
weren't there, I had a little
you with me. And I still do. It's grown
considerably. It doesn't

moan, or vent
the way you always did.
It doesn't bleed, but still
it cares as you once did. I turn
to it in time of need, or else
it barges in, "surprise!" To pipe up

on some this or that. I still know
so damn strong just what
this person thinks, and feels
and wants, and who she is.

Or was. I still know so damn
strong what you would say
or do. Despite we've grown
so long so far apart,

from when we really knew.

Oh, you are not the only one.
Your single cell, so tenanted -
I have a sprawling prison wing
inside myself of drifting things
now drifted off, and now and then

- I meet with them, sometimes for real.
No, you are just one troubled shade,
one convict in the doppelgang. But

you're the one I like most to
let out, least likely

to let hang. Most likely to
with sudden pang, recall myself
to self, and feel

as if I'm somehow more than just
another of these pseudo-souls.
It dates from days and ages
past. You got in first
to make me whole.