Woven

Sometimes you pick up old threads.  You smell them and lick them to try to gauge where they've been since last they touched your fingertips.  You blow dust off the fibers and sneeze and cough in the cloud of dust, but watching it settle, holding the thread tight, the cloud looks and smooths the same way the cloud grew to the point where you knew you had to close your eyes or bite your lip through opened eyed pangs.

And then you have it again.  Like a goonie boobie trap.  Wonder where it will go.  Wonder what will come of it and how you will get out of it this time.

Restraint is flagging.  I don't know why.  Because it's easy?  How many times can you be rabbit punched with no referee interference before you are allowed to say "I do not want to play anymore?"

We'll see.  The tapestry is reduced to threads,  With fingers we make.




///coming soon