simply sit around
and wait;
in fact, it acts
more like
a chaos agent—
a narrative tornado
punting newborns
into mangers
and tying your left
shoelace to the right one
of a stranger.
But eager
as we are to profess
our ignorance—
to escape the traps
of tenderness, and
look away from its messes—
this urge to uncouple
merely stretches
out our passions
until they snap
back like a rubber
band, and
just like that:
we're attached.
