Photo Credit: Sudrosa at deviantart.com

His shadow split
long ago
into black and white,
leaving him in the deep gray
of in between.

Each step tears him
a bit more,
and he can’t stitch himself
back together quick enough
to make a difference.

His thread thins
into gossamer,
a line so tenuous
it trembles as it binds,
cracks as it secures him
to his lies.

He thinks he needs
to forget her,
to erase the memory
of her cheek on his chest,
her breath on his skin.

He thinks her vanishing
will fix the split,
strengthen his stitches,
repair his thread,
but his eyes are closed,
too blind to see

she is the maker
of the twine coiling
around his limbs.
She is the only thing
holding him together.



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