Your Kite Face

A string can be cut into many pieces, yet we chose to tug at each end, inflicting abrasions unto each other's hand. If eyes could drip pus and blood, I would'nt be caught in this teary flood. Once I tried to weave a net that would impale you, a caricature of my undoing, a cartouche of my most ancient script of desire. Around each bend and hitch we ran, knotting nothing into Wonderland. I wonder when your kite face plunged the sands. For in the end, I gaze longingly into the cuts of my fat bleeding hands.