If I were to take one violin hair,

thread it through worn-torn days we spent.

Making sense, again, of feelings

being ripped apart. Wearing our emotions

out and in, that way.

Into any stage presence given, without notice,

of thoughts, words, and deeds,

escalating into this bottom-end of day.

I would try. As seamstress turned

musician of forgiving heart, beating with

its ongoing message, to diffuse the

argument, somehow.

To use the fabric

of its compromise, to let us warm those

places with me blocked out, or vice versa.

Until time mends on its own two feet,

letting us enter that world, again.

As we were once together in this

form of being. Clasping love's warm,

mink eyes as a healthy diet, to our

constant securing togetherness,

in its changing habits, somehow.