Self Dissuasion

You tied a ribbon 'round your wrist and offered it to me,

once,

for a night.

You never asked me to let go,

you made no move to loosen my grip

as you walked away.

And I am not easily dissuaded.

I have assumed there must have been a reason

for the ribbon.

And so my fingernails have dug down betwixt the threads,

weaving themselves into the fabric of the proffered band of cloth.

You've traveled quite a distance, and without once looking back.

But perhaps, maybe, you'll turn around.

I can feel keratin separating from skin at the tips

of all these calloused fingers.

There will be a point at which the discomfort exceeds the desire

for the hypothetical, the might-be, that you so flippantly provided me with.

I simply can't bear to watch it burn, not yet.

The ashes would be a caustic cloud that I cannot yet bring myself to inhale.

But a match lingers on the edge of hesitant hands,

tip pressed to the slate emery coating of the matchbox.

When my fingernails are gone I will lose you,

and I must burn the threads left bloodied around my heels.