Doppelgänger

Where is she now, the one you say left you
              in the swamp of your late awakening? 
And where is the one you pined for in dream 
             after waking dream? She and I are one 
and the same. You think only one of us halved
            her heart when she left you. You think
leaving means only that you could not see 
            the marks our bodies left in space: finger 
trails in a spill of flour and sugar, but not  
            enough wisps of hair to embroider
your name on a pillowcase edge. She comes
            to me when both of us are nearly 
flattened by the unpredictability of time, and
            one of us tells the other she can rest.