You.
You've undone,
me.
Each
thread
snipped.
carefully and thoroughly-
not to miss a single
one.

They don't make them
like this,
anymore.
They patch with glue,
and nothing really combines-
really meshes-
anymore.
They squeeze tightly
to what they hold
but
they hold
nothing
compared to these old threads
bound
stitch by stitch
through canvassed paper.

Etched into my heart
woven
into my hips,
they don't make them
like
this
anymore-

they patch with glue and print
on thin
flimsy
sheets
of shredded tress immune
to routine they know so well-

Slice
Shred
Print.

In my days,
it was woven,
it was thick canvas paper that
paint couldn't bleed through.

It was woven into the spine,
threads of teeth
stitch by stitch-

Behold,
somehow-
you managed so easily
to
un
do
me.

Unbound
and with each
breath
another thread
slithers
loose
and
inhales, then hums
and settles.