Patchwork Doll

I remember the tedious feeling
of the almost coming-apart. How sitting
there, beneath you, I felt a put-togetheredness
that bordered on the sense of falling,
and it only took me hours to realize that
the seams that held my insides in,
my outsides out, had slowly been unraveling,
and that the spools of thread that wind around
and build my heart with strings
were in your hands, and as I walked away,
or as you led me to the door, the threads began
to come apart, pulling at seams within seams
until one long strand was pulling taught between
us - you holding the ends of my being
and me huddled in a puddle of fabric on my bed,
my insides vacant and strewn between the
time and distance that we had created for ourselves.
Try as you might, I won't believe you tossed
those strings aside because, as they are those
inner parts of me, I still feel the vibrations
of your presence running through and exciting them,
which is perhaps why I cannot leave your face
so quickly, or why I'm still unable to wrap myself back
up the way I was before. For now I am
a patchwork doll, a makeshift man of haunted
dreams of love and bittersweet emotion.
For now the heart strings still glow,
Only now it's easier to see them
through the gaps in my seams that haven't quite
healed, because you're still holding
my needle and thread.