we are primitive cloth, words
tightly bound, truth caught
between the warp and weft
of us.  it is true that our
hands are sore, rubbed raw
with the ever-quickening
pulling and tightening,
twisting and casting away.

it was fate, perhaps?  perhaps
not but still, know this;
that which is thrown across us,
the straight and narrow of
our lives, is faltering, the
structure unsound, unraveling

.

And it stops.  It just ends.  Why are certain pieces so hard?

Today I am sun-worn pavement, blades of grass between the cracks, tiny green heads threatening to spill over and cover the walk in a thick, fragrant carpet.  Vintage teapots mis-matched, filled with handfuls upon handfuls of wildflowers, pollen and dust mites hanging lazily in the afternoon sun.  A ruffled apron slung low across my hips, pearls dripping from my neck and a hand-carved brass key tucked away in my back pocket.  I wish I could show you this.

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