The Golden Thread

In this state nothing will escape me. Here is warm. I’ve taken a jolly to escape. It’s someone else’s joy, but this dam sprung a leak, and it will cease the steady flow for now. We whisper so as not to be heard by the smallest of specters. There’ a sign on my forehead that says admission must be paid, and you must be this tall to enter. It’s not so much a ride right now, but a slow melting mêlée, a haphazard disjointed series of thoughts that refuses to adhere. My guts have stopped rumbling and my torso is numbed. My eyes are plaster cast, drying under a scalding lamp. Sensational euphoria masks utter malaise, dripping down the back of my throat. A gold coast offers a bounty treasures. The cold hard sand stopped sucking at our feet, it’s like concrete against out soles. Where are you sitting now? What makes you read this? What are you thinking? I’m sinking into my seat as I speak. There is a prayer on my head as we speak, to find and remove a solitary hair of yours from my shoulder. One weightless gold thread clamped between thumb and forefinger. A mindless act that forces me to ponder, “How did this bullion strand appear?” I must have picked it up along the endless miles I have walked. We brushed shoulders in the desert. I was headed for an oasis and we crossed paths under the arm of an old cactus tree. A tract of land so vast and yet we got close enough for your twine to jump ship. Now I hold your fiber before my lips and release a hiss of wind to dismiss it. Due to magnetic attraction between opposing poles the follicle returns. Like barbed wire it cinches my heart tearing slow as molasses. Stunned by jagged needles shredding muscle I fall to my knees.