stitches

It is that last thread, tugged at without mercy, pulled on until the whole of things is undone. It is the least sentiment, spent upon threat and ache. The world is always working on something, it is always half plot, half map. The world, woven and weaving. The string you covet tears at the seam. Things come undone, with or without you.

The wounds seem deeper, given any thought. Those small impacts, those deep punctures, the tincture of tears and pain that greet each day. They feather through, they slink and devour. They make you a ruin, leave you a-shambles. You light out towards the far territories, barely a bag in hand, carrying the weight of these injuries. Your life will run down, painted with these gaps and frenzies. You remember, you forget, the long fall still before you. You swallow hard, spit out some prayer for ease and respite. The night goes on and on.

I can not carry my load. I can not count the ways. I empty out in the usual ways, words and luster, the clutter of want and the endless uphill of just one more. I move in circles, I move in straight lines. I hold so still that even time forgets. My cup runs over, and still there is nothing. My luck runs out, and I keep going on. I lose the thread of the conversation long before it happens. I remember some, and then everything is in pieces. I follow the sunset, trapped in my car. I arrive a little later, waiting again to leave.