he says he wears a tapestry
denim in dirty history
both unwashed by machines
I already know.

he tells me which thread is sewn
in witch countries
bruised shoes, continental friction, sizzling spices.
trapped, worn unto himself
keeping him warm
I want to tell him
I already know.

he doesn’t like frayed ends.
he traces them with
patterns and oriental cloth
there is a tear nonetheless
wearing neat fabric lipstick.
I want to graze his knee through it;
that invitation to break his skin
like how the world broke his denim, but

I am unmarked territory.
no travellers for my swallowed continents
no passports for passing through
or a promise
of warmth over turbulence.

I am momentary
a pause
frayed at the ends
and around the ages

he won’t drive a needle
into that sea and skin for me
and I already know.

—
an exercise in need of a proper title.