Unspooled by your gravity,
each pliant thread of me
is stretched across this
graded plane, steeped
in deep, drinkable air.

You place the pins
on the board to shape
me—I pivot to meet
you, under the pressure
of fretting fingertips.

What constellation is made
without crossing lines?
Stars are gapless, but
leave plenty of space
to hide in the dark.

Pull my satin strings
a little tighter—
dare me to snap.
Believe this pattern
was made to be broken.

Photo by Jorge Fakhouri Filho from Pexels


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