Worn out



I can sense my desire to reach out to you.
To delicately wrap my fingers around that one single thread,
Keeping my reflexes in control to not make a mistake,
One strong pull and I would have you broken,
In my arms for a while, I would feel you,
Never really knowing how to fix you.
So I take my time, and with each touch
I murmur my desire to my lips,
Reminding myself of why I had to have you.
But is that what it takes?
Oh is that what it takes.
And then it broke, the thin thread stroking my fingers,
Lifeless and calm, neither the strong wind nor I could resurrect you,
You didn't budge even a little, so I left you there,
My heart too weak to try and my hands bleeding,
Not a tear fell, not a single heartbeat, not even a tinge of regret,
But a thought whizzed by, and echoed indifference.
And I knew,
This is not what it takes.



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