I’ve grown wary of wooing, woozy from wearing my sleeve so close to my heart,
the drawing out the drawing in I am drawn like a shade tightly, tightly I don’t believe, is the thing.
but your fingers tangle in my cord they draw me out they draw me in– a lulling, a hulling a slipping off a slipping in a ray of light slips slickly through the slats and I am holding my breath and I am holding my heart and I am holding you tightly, tightly and then– I breathe. I breathe. It always comes too soon is the thing.
a drifting, a sifting a pulling out a pulling away a knowing too of this simple truth: