Pressing my hands
against the edges of my jean pockets,
I sit on the opposite side of the bench
inches apart
from you.

Hanging by a thread,
we both know there’s a lot less in hope in the seams,
than there used to be.

I wonder
which one of us
will be the first
to let

I’m not smiling at the incentive,
not crying over the present,
though our heart muscles’ strain is relentless,

I won’t give up on love
just yet.

We experienced so many moments together,
took milestone risks and veered straight through the pressure.
So what happened to all that time?
I’d wish for anything to make it play on forever,
but that’s only if you’re willing to
keep the threads strong.

Because I don’t want to end up threadbare,
stripped thin of every vein I own.
I can’t imagine you finding a replacement,
another heart for your home.

Hanging by a thread,
our exhales grow a little larger,
while your spirits struggle to get high,
but out of all the melancholy,
a lamp post lights up the dark
across bittersweet foliage.
I’m hoping it will give you a sense of mind,
and maybe a second chance for us to grip onto
our heartstrings
once again.


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