Two worlds ( from the book "Grown from a pupil")

I know,
for the last time our fingers are intertwined, in a bed of mutilated memories.
Our backs do not touch,
alienation does not choose a face.
In a place of bliss,
the restless poisoning the bed.
I draw strength;
hopes to pour down the pillow.
Sigh breaks my chest,
you're tearing us into two worlds.