We used to be bound up
in stitches.
Immobile, prone, breathless,
our seams rending
from a joke
whose ghost haunts my
unfastened mind.
I never thought it would unravel,
that we would become dis
joint, spliced by the paring
knife of a single crack
in a windshield.
Our twinned laughter skipped
and tripped and
ripped
as we wrenched to
a grinding halt, ending
sharply
like spider-web silk
snapped off in a car door.
You and me
a We,
twinned and twined,
our sutures clumsy
done by hands unable
to bind us with
thin wisps of
spent mirth.
They sewed you up,
cold skin pierced and piqued
in scarred black
Ellipses.
A sentence you never
wanted set in
needlepoint.
I waited for the
severed sky to settle, my
stitches left loose in bloody
gossamer strings.
Over and over,
I pinched at the threads,
unable to knot myself back
Together.
From the April 2015 issue of Linden Avenue Literary Journal
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