one’s not half two. It’s two are halves of one:
which halves reintegrating, shall occur
no death and any quantity; but than
all numerable mosts the actual more
minds ignorant of stern miraculous this every truth
beware of heartless them
(given the scalpel, they dissect a kiss;
or, sold the reason, they undream a dream)
one is the song which fiends and angels sing;
all murdering lies by mortals told make two.
Let liars wilt, repaying life they’re loaned;
We (by a gift called dying born) must grow
deep in dark least ourselves remembering
love only rides his year.
All lose, whole find
e. e. cummings