Tangled sitting here, alone,
But tangled nonetheless,
In the chaos of you, of me,
Of what I’m supposed to be
Without you. Or am I
Supposed to be anything
It’s an intertwining of spirit and soul,
Of lust and longing,
Something so physical it suggests
Something far beyond physicality.
Or emotion. Or spirituality.
A combination of what I need to be me
And what I want to be us.
Sitting here, a chair and me,
In the darkness, wrapped in everything
As potential feeds on possibilities
And possibilities drown out doubt.
Finding a way out by giving in
To the tangled web.