Bondage

How thin is the line between love and death? A poet's mind's length; a fine, raven hair's breadth. I remember clearly all those sweet times We lay after sex; all the low clock chimes With your head on my heaving, breathless chest; The nights without you; alone; cold at best. Between thumb and finger I twist the bond, The rope which we played with; with which so fond. Muscle memory reties naughty knots; As my mind's projector plays those old thoughts; It's ironic; those ties that gave us joy Should end all the pain in this tragic boy; That the rope with which I tied fast her hands Should snatch my soul out from the Devil's plans. I slip down that knot; fasten the rafter, As I kick that chair, I hear her laughter.