Revision
No longer do I weave this cloth
for sleep. The cilice clings, so real
are you against my skin. This weft
and warp desire no hours to heal.
I hear the darkling loom within.
I thread my night. You are my cloth.
Over and under you thread my skin.
Original
No longer do I weave this cloth
for sleep. The cilice clings, so real
are you against my skin. This weft
and warp desire no hours to heal.
I thread my night. You are my cloth.