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.