His silken lifelines are his vanity,
But not a vanity; history
I can read it, see it clearly
run a fine-toothed comb through it only to see it woven for an instant before it unravels in my hand; warm caresses my gift before slipping through thin fingers
I bury myself in his life. I like the feel of it. But it has come apart and I want to weave it back together.
Threads are separated, each delicately spun, smooth to the touch
I separate the whole now, and each I hold. His life is in my hands, and I have every intention of manipulating it.
And he likes it, twisting
I pull it tight, tighter for my tapestry, and begin the weaving
--over, under, in and out--
beginning with the present, extending, ending with the past
I pause in places to untangle childhood from war, or simply to saver the storyline. Here I study the street life, there a cockpit cold as the death and vengeance it brings and symbolizes. Here, his time with me. From present to past. Childhood...
...I tie it off upon its completion, the braid of memories he carries with him always. His velvet rope, this satin chain, binding him forever...
I kiss his nose. "All done..."
My fingers trace the warm roots, my eyes see my reflection. His smile matches my own.