You held up a thought
and asked if it matches
my polka-doted perception
the one with the patches.
I said, with head shaken,
Your thought just won't do
I've tested that theory
The test went askew.
You smiled, so persistent
And pulled at the thread
that weaved us together,
or so you just said.
But the weave wasn't right
and the fabric was torn
Feelings messy and frayed
pattens stillborn.
"But I once saw this blue,"
you winked, "not it's clear."
Colors aren't the problem..
it's habits, my dear.
You sighed, and I grinned
though both of us grieving
Our objective, so cloudy
With thoughts we were weaving.
I think that it's time
that we split up the seam.
My hands so unwilling
to repair this old dream.
We nodded. We knew.
Our thoughts just don't fit
the sleek tailored designs
we painstakingly knit.
We straightened, though broken
composing last thoughts
of polka-dotted fads
and strings left in knots.
Who discards it, I ask...
the dream of no-more....?
You pointed to remains,
chalk-outlined on the floor.
And with that you shoved
your thoughts in your pocket
along with the thread
and that delusive old docket.
Then I left with my patterns,
and years worth of patches.
And in my pocket, some thread..
... hey you're right!
The two pieces are matches.
(go figure)
~ Terri Jean
