Your side of the bed is empty but for a sock,
off-white, the bottom of it pilling
between the sheet and air. Just one
sock, hollow with not-you. And I’m wondering
about the other, and of the things
you’ve only known in halves:
the desk you made that sits unfinished in
your parents’ shed; the pages of origami
you began the birthday I bought you
Origami for Dummies; your Dad’s wisdom;
the bike in the basement,
wheels elsewhere; your faith in God;
the stripes of crayon blue, royal blue,
baby blue, ocean blue, and blue-jay blue
adorning the wall across from your desk.
I want to know: how do I measure a person
in the accumulation of his incompletes?
How to get to the whole of you?