My lungs sit crowded with heavy breaths. 

Heavy breaths crowd my lungs like roots. 

Roots weave themselves in and out of my lungs; this is patchwork. 

I am alive with patchwork. 

My lungs are more root than lung. 

This way, I’m more grounded. 

My roots reach up over my chest
and,
on days when I spin too fast,

weave themselves into rope. 

My stomach is a mess of fibers; patchwork of knots.  

Your guitar is a gut-wrench. 

It loosens my patchwork; counter-clockwise, like the way you strum. 

Sometimes I spin counter-clockwise, like trying to make the same sounds. 

Sometimes I wonder if she hates me for not writing more important poems. 

Today, I got too close to another woman.

My patchwork caught her scent, 

seized up, 

said *wrong woman.