STILL

An egg cracked open.
Life inside life.
Life blown apart for another life.
A face disfigured by life; a face not yet touched by life.
Tears or tears? The one causes the other.
The laceration of the real; the perfection of the imagined.
Who is she? Why doesn’t she mind that terrible tear? Where are her tears?
Who is the other? Why is she so selfishly unaware of the ruin her arrival has caused?
How is it possible for half a face to be torn away and still be? Be still?
To be as serene as she is?
It has happened.
And still they are.
Both.
Still.