you are so dear to me. my confusion sits down in your company and spins together with your murkiness. if i had known what to call home, call love, i would have come sooner. dont call on me if I leaven. don’t call on me, I used to say. I bend over like willow in this suction and I mend all that my fingers can manage. I design, stitch pink into satin and forget the navigation I had ruptured in the past. the stems of us are laying down or blooming or moving inside but none of it matters. you matter. matter of fact it isn’t even the hum in the neck that shadows. it is the ugly closing that opens my sails to your beckoning power.