It’s never too much for you to hear my thoughts.
Never too much to meet me in the gaps of the day,
even though you are pulled around on puppet strings
and often made to dance through the night;
kept away from the family loop no matter how hard you try
to seek a way back in.
I, in turn, will always listen to even the darkest parts of your mind,
caring not what hour it is, even if the witches are out.
What matters to me is you know
I’m not going anywhere,
my feet are sewn to the same path as yours
by my own hand,
a stitch that can never be cut.
Treeshallow Musings 