there is a string of answers

hidden behind

inaccessible curtains. 

there is a chemical exit

staining its paper backing.

it watches from a brown 

bookshelf perch as we 

cry ourselves into pulp.

each knot i tie in the 

loose thread fumbling 

between my fingers is a 

promise that matches the

black and red weft threads of the

tired blanket i pulled it from.

go get your lighter.

there is a brittle knot of

kindling in my throat and oh

right now, darling, the 

burning would feel good;

stretching and curling in the

heat, arched back,

whistling at the embers 

floating away somewhere,

hissing at the sky.

there is a sound like parting 

lifting and floating away with

time and a scent that stains 

fibers making it hard to forget.