Lapses & Threads

Sometimes we have these short lapses in the presence of our own presence, moments when we see the future, feel a person that we will love, who we have not met yet. We experience our own experiences prior to their realization, their moment of contact in our propulsion through time. Moments when we experience a life that is not ours but will be if we stay right here, always right here. These short lapses feel like pouring honey onto your tongue and discovering it again for the first time, waking up at four in the morning and seeing their face folded into a pillow, covered in moonlight and shadows, and our eyes feel reborn, like blown glass taking shape and cooling, like clouds creating thunder in the same way for millions of years. Rocks becoming smooth. Finally smooth.

After so many nights of moonlight and crashing thunder, these short lapses are our fingers wrapped too tightly with unbreakable thread. A thread that leaves marks, lines, cuts, and hope. We pull the threads farther apart, and reveal, and entangle, and soon the threads slice so deeply into our flesh, and become taught, waiting, praying for them to give, to snap, to fail, to open to us. And soon they weave patterns through us, into our bones, into our fears for what the future holds. Soon the threads hold us together, our skin gives way and the air that kept distance from the moon now keeps us from ourselves, still pulling, tearing, fighting against the threads. They're red. Thin. Sharp. Beautiful. Kind. They are tied in knots to our limbs and movements, moments. Our blood vessels are tiny eyes of tiny needles for tiny threads, weaving through our bodies, mapping, coiling, weaving, binding, we breathe them. We are threads, and others fight to open us, we're a lapse for someone in something and they can't pull us apart to see inside and soon we're tangled, and coiled, and chained on the floor, unspooled, unraveled, torn, sewn, complete.