May 10, 2013
Our palms meshing, stitched together with tiny dew droplets
differing the knitted pattern of the passerby
because your broken thimble
could not withstand the pressure
of your lightly dusted fingernails
as they prodded through my arteries
perusing my beating heart because
hearts attached by thread become
vigorous, never false
but a love so redefined, they say,
they all say
and so we cross-stitch preservatives
into our weave
mimicking the grins of oncoming traffic
who slyly added an extra string
to create a sturdier chain proving
they have a love like no other
but paper always beats rock
and my hands are slippery.