like finely tool'd textiles
i recall how we cross-stitch'd
personalities talking small talk,

and eventually ending up
in a blind hem that kept us
going over, under, around
and through. . .

it was your freehand that
dealt me that slipknot tongue,
interfacing our need to be

one pattern. . . in spite of
both of us knowing we were
officially on hold as a custom-made
for someone else. . still we'd
braid our strands horizontally,
doing all we could to avoid
wrinkling our reputations. . .

but the passers-by just had to
prick away at our tapestry
unraveling strand by strand,
and the holes grew so large
that our garment was no longer
worth trying on any more. . .

so forever the remnant of
a beautiful crimson robe of desire
is left in the trunk of has-been frills,
left behind yesterday's curtain

 

© 2005 by cynth’ya lewis reed

all rights reserv’d
    
 
 
 

Cynth'ya Lewis Reed at Authors Den