We are certainly connected by some ethereal twine,
Absorbing our individual bumps and bruises,
Yet feeling pain on the other end of the line.
We are distanced yet close,
lovers but hating,
unforgiven and forgiven all the same.
You may not feel the same as me, but nonetheless I feel.
And feeling is second-best to having you, so feeling must do.
I wrote a letter to my feelings weeks ago, simple and brief,
expressing an imprudent desire to have your nocturnal visitations cease.
Your wraith-like appearances, up until last evening, only highlighted the loss and sadness.
Highlighted the missing and the missed.
And so last night feelings gave way to your incessant knock, and as before, you appeared.
First distanced, and with others. Then talking to me.
And with your words, or your look, you reached out with the end of your twine, though frayed as it has become, and I with mine,
and we tied them back together into a loop of something divine.