If I were to take one violin hair,
thread it through worn-torn days we spent.
Making sense, again, of feelings
being ripped apart. Wearing our emotions
out and in, that way.
Into any stage presence given, without notice,
of thoughts, words, and deeds,
escalating into this bottom-end of day.
I would try. As seamstress turned
musician of forgiving heart, beating with
its ongoing message, to diffuse the
To use the fabric
of its compromise, to let us warm those
places with me blocked out, or vice versa.
Until time mends on its own two feet,
letting us enter that world, again.
As we were once together in this
form of being. Clasping love's warm,
mink eyes as a healthy diet, to our
constant securing togetherness,
in its changing habits, somehow.