Thrice

I am enticed with the majestic fluidity of your fingertips,

tugging at my strings so that my skirt twirls and billows

around me in a mannerism that only romance could suggest.

And the smell of your cologne entices me

enough that I cannot detect the lies

seeping through your skin.

No, you are my master again.

I was hesitant this round,

I did not want my cords tied round my neck in knots.

But you whispered to me gently,

sweetly,

that you had forgotten how to hang others

just limply from a thread.

Yet here I am.

And as the déjà vu rattles my bones

I cling to the twisted twines of love,

already knowing

that they will break

and I will fall

and I will shatter

and I will pick up the splinters

and you will be nowhere in sight,

but the show must go on.

This poem is about: 
Me

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