Stitching time with you

brought me to the end of a thread,

one unkowingly finite.

Pushing my hand through air toward

your warm forehead, lightly damp

beneath a short cascade of brown hair,

mixed salt sour scent, barely perceptible 

and more familiar than any other’s,

in a last inhale holding no more frustration

with the snap of that thread

and a long, tangled, eventually satisfying,

wordless goodbye.