Alive?

I wish my mother would've told me

That life didn't start when I took my first breath and

Shed my first tear.

It's all these years later that I'm still waiting

For that spark,

That place that is so wholly me

Where my face is the final corner peice

Only symmetrical there because it only belongs

There.

No where else, no one else.

My heart beats only half as much

As it should.

It skips, always skips, a delayed staccato

Conscious of its semi-conscious state.

Where is the other half of my heart?

If I cannot fetch my heart, find my place,

Then my life can never being.

Can I die without truly being alive?