for over twenty years, i’ve asked myself why
the little red string around my little finger must haunt my thoughts.

i fiddle with it while i sit,
tying knots or braiding the slack.
the string blows in the wind like any other string,
gets wet in the rain like any other string,
and accompanies me as i fall asleep,
as if to simply say, endlessly, “soon.”

why does it hold onto me,
like a vice, clamping on my conscience?
or do i hold on to the string instead,
feeling the hum of its strands under my fingertips,
a tether to life and love not yet realized?

i think about the string a lot, probably more than it’s worth
questioning the way it moves,
the quivers at night,
its dance under a too-bright sun,
and its stillness when winter’s chill sets in.

i’ve chased that string to each end of the earth,
waiting, calling out, for the fateful pull,
the tug, as if to say “you’re nearly there.”

the string frays as i travel,
the tension nigh-palpable,
until i find myself yearning for the pull.

i’ve tried to sever it,
to cut my losses and mourn the inevitable passage of time;
“what good are fateful meetings, anyway?”
it never loosens, never breaks, never tangles
never quite escapes me - always a whisper to stay anchored,
a reminder of all that makes me human.

i run my fingers up and down the string,
shimmy it around my finger,
lament over the tan lines it leaves, subtle reminders of a love i don’t yet have,
a memory of all left undone, all i didn’t chase,
a simple wish to learn more about the one on the other side.

does the string tremble late at night
by the laughter of friends
or by the tears of someone hopelessly searching?

does the string dance on a bright summer day
by the sway of a cool breeze
or by the sprints of a yearning lover towards me?

and does it still during the winter nights
as the inevitability of time’s passage sets in
or because of a warm fire, a hot mug, and warm company?

i flick the string
it ripples, calling out to whoever may be on the other end:
i’m here
i’m waiting
come find me