Sewing
There are days I feel I do not sew my own path. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of someone or something from another time.
I see the thread. I sever it.
But it ties a knot and makes anew, winding its way around my arms, my fingers, my heart.
I tug it again, slash it.
He stands in front of me now. Two and a half years, or is it three? The thread tightens, it chokes my path, brings me to a stop. I am consumed to fall onto the route it weaves.
We are intertwined, pulled taught, never breaking.