In the
curled hours
between
thinking
& feeling

Unfurls
a still
true
truth:
that writing
is

what
happens
when you turn
to follow
that
gold &
hair thin
thread
trailing
behind,

which
moors
you to
a
long
ago
snag.

So, you
follow it back,
finger
pinch
over
finger
pinch

To that place
in the
morass
where you
find
her

Gently
crouching,

And drift
into a
Mesmerine
stare as

her
old
soft
hand

stops
scooping
ash dry
remainders
into
a sun
stained
fond

long
enough
to fold
an unwritten
letter

whose
specific
gravity
is
barely
weighted

by a
stone

which you
cannot
figure

neither
how to
put down
nor
how to
bear.