I pull, in vain.
Expert knots, stopper knots, but you would let me free, I know. If I asked.
Or would you make me beg? I wish for this, for your desire to keep me here, at your disposal.
I wish for your desire itself, pure within the context of possibility.
I am here, love, open. I percolate. I wait.
Dark–no, light, still more light–in the au-delà, where you have always found me.