Stitched thread by thread
Suspended, encased -
You are a relic to me:
Catalogued, lost, then found.
A hollow ode,
For the living skin that houses you.
This house is haunted.
Sprites crawl walls and spectres loom.
Yet in one corner I still dwell.
I sit across from you, a shade
dark and whirring, a machine hum:
Background noise in black and white.
Static.
I only move inside your shadow,
yet somehow, I crawl behind you
bound by thin white threads sewn
through you, through holes in me.
I close my eyes and pass them through deft hands,
and hope it brings you back to me.
I am Penelope,
weaving in wait.
There are strangers in these halls we built.
Poeyum 