loom we are like scissors, perfectly clasped together firm and shining and precise, wasting nothing all legs and arms and polished surfaces conjoined at the hinge place of rejoicing but our embrace, this secretly sharpening affair cuts and cuts a swath through the days a fraying and nasty incision threatening to hemorrhage the yellow glue of betrayal we are like scissors that steal and the teeth of our passion bite across the fabric of our lives, regardless of the warp, the woof, the snags left behind when will we be like the loom knitting ourselves into life bridging the soft thread of living each to every? when will the machinery of our hearts and lungs no longer need to be muffled and the metallic edge of desperate rendezvous melt into the purl and grace of a Sunday promenade? when will your morning kiss feed me like daily bread and we can say of ourselves, we are cut of a single cloth?