Weaver In Tangles

I must quiet my tongue on nights,
That I catch myself weaving verse,
Sewing words and stitching letters,
And threading this needle with thoughts,
Memories to patch together the past,
I'm here, alone, making you a gown,
Of lightly fitted poetry for you,
Embroidering its cloth with my motifs,
And cut it to your size with similes,
I stitch it so it hugs all of your curves,
The slender arches of your build,
From memory I measure your limbs,
Each rib I know better than myself,
I’m just a hopeless weaver of your dress,
Because you left and left me only pictures,
Only photos of your naked breasts,
As you twirled for me in all your splendor.

By Pete Soto

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