distance distorts; hang tight

The taste, it walks along the lines, afraid but full. A kind kill of cautionary treads. She filled the distance, so she thought. Kept tight and pure. Raced to the line of immediate doing.

Sorely skipping the board of being too much.

But a  distance distorts; it rearranges and fills in the gaps with contemporary neurosis. Dry thoughts to saturate the junctions & shrivel the joys out of the frame.

He'd left the tale hanging by a thread

A game of hide and seek on time out.

 She wanted this. This was her doing.

When you hang in tight enough, you'll overlook every detail whilst thoroughly examining each pore—extracting vials for your own resurrection. All the more, putting your enigma to bed. Not the bed of knowing but the bed of sensing. An appetite on the menu is what she seeked. Still, to her surprise, the pattern recognition was off.

The gut, oh the gut, it is never lost. You just let it go unfound.

All she wanted was love. A pure love she knows nobody could fill, fix or tend to. It's an extension of her. And her only. Nobody will come to pick up the leftovers between the gaps. To cleanse and make space for what's to come.

In an attempt to reduce her sunken costs, she'll selfishly inject fear and flaws to justify the poor frame of physiology reflecting her. The sickness that halts at the crossroads of throat to mouth fires up. The bubbles begin. It won't go down and won't come up/ stuck on redial.

A repeat of previous offences leads to being on a fence

—a fragile win.