She was half a person. There but not. Fully formed but falling in on herself like over-boiled rice.
He was one half of nothing. Less than. Sifted, staid, slipping away.
Together they were one. None. Some. Two fingers on one hand but not enough to make a fist.
They took up space in a hallway, a staircase, a bed, but people would walk around them or lie across them as if they were not there in that exact place.
They came. They saw. They wept. No, not wept. They slept. One on top of the other.
She braided her hair into his. He knotted his into hers. Their hands pressed together so tightly that one fingerprint slid into place inside the other.
She tucked her ear inside of his. He wove his throat through hers in a thick cross hatch. They lived. They lied. They died. No, not died. They dug. Underground. Bunk beds, not graves, sandwiched close, toes gathered in the dirt.
She pulled herself down on top of him. He pushed up-in-through. They swam in short strokes and chopped their legs, something like kicking. She, he, they. Each one half.