Sep. 20th, 2016

metaphorliteral: (typewriter)
It seems like I moved through the world always puzzled,
forever the girl who would pull loose ends of strings
just to see what would happen, sometimes unraveling what was enmeshed,
always seeking sources but rarely finding myself pleased
with what I discovered. It's my curse, perhaps,
or maybe my blessing, this ability to trace but not

a commensurate ability to leave those threads in the knot
holding them in place, to find a shape but never fit the puzzle
pieces together. My blessing, or curse, perhaps,
to myself be a single piece of string
unfrayed by association from those who'd fret or please
me, to hold myself apart from what might ensnare

me past my point to divine myself. What matter, my yearning to entwine,
to create something lovely with another thread by knotting
ourselves into complex beauty? I thought it past my ability to please
anyone well enough, to find someone who matches the edges of my worn puzzle
piece and interlock to form an image, to find a hue of string
which harmonizes well with my own mild blue-- to be matched, perhaps

in complement, or alternately in contrast, perhaps.
So long I've sought one I could embrace,
someone to join me in stitching us close with strings
of conversation, someone who might love me when I think I'm not
worthy of love, the one who'd strive to solve the puzzle
I present, that person who might seek to please

me, and in that pleasure find themself well pleased.
I wasn't sure that I deserved them, had earned them, perhaps
felt that the loss of one proved me forever an unmatched piece of a puzzle,
a letter never sent and doomed to remain unenveloped.
How thrilling, then, to have these fears dispelled, to not
remain in the grip of these tangled dreads, to slice the anxiety-frayed string

with your sharp wit and let you reel me close with love's stronger string.
How long I've waited for the touch that would not panic but please,
for limber arms and legs to catch me in a knot
of adoration and proximity, to find, perhaps,
the perfect one with whom to entangle
both our hearts into one perfectly aligned puzzle.

Bind us together with delicate strings which we may perhaps
find durable enough to please our hearts entwined:
no longer uncomplemented, not to stay an unsolved puzzle.


metaphorliteral: (Default)

September 2016

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