Dangling, hung by a thread
unraveling
slightly faster than it is
repaired,
but only slightly.
Like letters that are just
barely
out of focus,
so close to being illegible,
so close to becoming just
lines on a page in a
packed-away notebook
that was once an alter
for self-possessed ramblings.
A hand, a thought, a smile,
just out of reach,
clinging to a phantom of a
former reality,
grasping at the dust
kicked up by
feet dancing deftly away
as they have always done.