I pull a thread.
The warp and weave begin
to fall apart,
strings dangling and catching,
while I imagine you alone
with a glass of Chardonnay
in a soundproof room
full of music.

In my own room,
where sound proves nothing,
I pick and pull
until the cloth hangs uneven,
with gaps of reason showing
through fabric made of air
and erotica,
shot through with crossthreads of
purple tension and bass notes
that fade until
I’m the only vibration in the room.