Tuesday, April 8, 2014

I stumble through a spiderweb,
memories sticky and spun beautifully.

What can I do when
every thought is of you
and what could have been?
I make my rounds down the hours and up again,
a quarter past ten we stopped by the woods, talked about the future,
at one-thirty we shared a meal,
at six we shared your bed,
spoke in tongues
with our clothes on and our souls half-dressed as we grasped at flesh,
my novice hands spinning a tapestry imminently shred.

Time has slowed,
it loops in geometric angles
around my head.
I've learned to tiptoe,
tread lightly around the edge in search of escape.

We were a work of art, dear,
spun with a skein that emptied too abruptly,
but why ruin a precious, temporal thing?
Now, I let our web collect dewdrops and shimmer like silver threads in the morning sun;
then one day it will be gone,
it's memory a perfect imprint in the corner of my smile,
between my fingers and my touch.

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