Halved

The blade bites slow,

tooth by tooth—

a rusted handsaw grinding

the branch in two.

Dust drifts down like old mistakes,

soft as regrets that pile

in forgotten corners

where sunlight dies.

A crooked line splits bark,

a clean break that won't knit.

The branch sags, severed,

quiet as the spaces we

left without repair,

hard edges pressed together,

yet always cracked.

The saw hums low, deliberate,

as if erasing the past

was only a matter

of cutting sharper,

of making halves.