This morning, dreamt I had no hands, just sleeves.
and you were holding some thin thread, there,
twisting a story around your fingers
and pulling my arms apart
When I awoke, I didn't quite feel unraveled
just folded up like a sweater in your case,
I felt warm, I looked down
and my hands were red mittens
I said, I might be falling.
you told me no,
There was no use,
let's not let our love become a stitched pillow poem
I felt worn, you'd strung me up now,
hung on the back of your door,
You watched as I became the words in my mouth and a mass of wet tangled threads
then left the room.
I reached out
grasping at anything, the hem of your pants
shoelaces, belt loops,
but I had no hands to hold on.