Lovers looms

It is a peculiar and otherworldly feeling. It is subtle. Subtle like a touch mark on a knife, Or a fingerprint on a mirror. But in the quiet of a silent hour I can feel it. My soul is a weavers loom. With its strings all in a row. But somewhere down the stretch of yarn A strand is pulled alone. It is lengthened and pitched until The bobbin of yarn is tightened Like a noose, or my heartstrings when I look at you. The thread is pulled away. Perhaps to where you are. It's a small part of me. But I can still feel it It's estranged. Like an FM transmitter of range It's not quite gone. Just stretched. I wonder if you can feel it too. Cause I think I can feel a thread that theathers me to you.