Gone

The doll leaned in close. With a sharp needle between the threads. Of her suspicion. That he was gone. Accumulating as it does. Knitting. In heavy sweaters. Truths we know belong closer than we keep them. Gnarled fingers still agile enough for the tasks of tantrums. Feeble lives unbecome by circumstance. Emotion at the top of its tower. King Kong's holding tiny loves in giant fingers. As a million little bullets make the giant small.

Stitches. Knots. Threads. Assuming the efforts of broken hearts. Solitude my only measure of what is not alone. Tonight. And every one. Addiction my only proof. That there was something. Someone. Prior to this.

The more I let them go the closer they are.