Collectively we're all made of yarn
Weaving through laughter and sorrow with an open hand.
I can't help but to unravel around you, lose form, turn into utterly nothing. Perhaps some day a woman in her years
Will construct me into an afghan or some sort of comfort for others.
And I will soak up their stains in cold weather.
And bring smiles to boxes and balloons amongst shoulders.
And seas will dry up on cheekbones
As flowers cover skin in reds and golds.
The delicate bind between my flesh and yours
Is more then adequate to fulfill my splendor.
And that's all that i ever needed to be complete,
To be used as a heater of sorts under care and personal devotion.
And to be infinitely loved and adored by the likes of people that I unravel for.