How Could it Be
One has the desire to unravel an unfathomable thread in a handkerchief woven by itself.
How could it be
A person can suddenly be liberated in a network of threads that are stacked, crossed, overwritten neatly.
Dilapant handkerchiefs that have for years been woven patiently by his own fingers.
By his own silence
By his own fortitude
By the pull and breath of his own.
Time sprinkled in his own mind
By his own longing between a woman and a man living in a soundproof room called the room of affection.
How could it be.