is like holding the string
of a kite in a gale. The tail is
swept up and tangles in the
trees. You can't pull it free. It'll

wither in the sun. So,
you have a string not attached
to a thing, like an unloaded gun. Holding
onto you is like gripping a sharpened

knife. It cuts my hand, like bread I am
sliced.  Holding onto you is like
placing my palm over the flame of
a candle. It burns. The skin is not

made to handle the heat. It turns to ash
as it retreats. It's like holding onto the edge
of a cliff with just my fingertips. I slip into the abyss
and fall to my death with only a kiss.