Threaded

And they called it, puppet love
.
.
I never knew you had dimples.
You’ve never shown them to me.
You’d laugh and you’d roar
with a voice filled with cymbals
but you’d never smile for me.
I’ve tired out the one-liners, the puns, the slapstick – and
I’m tired from the word play, the knock-knock, the sarcastic
whilst you, as ever, are the unenthusiastic
lover, keeping your teeth from me.
I’ve been knitting the tears into your eyes,
and sewing the sympathy into your smile –
darning your voice with loving words to
feel real again, once in a while.
And I don’t want your thimbles –
keep your embroidery hoop crown.
It’s the cross-stitch grin that I’m after
now that you’ve made me your clown.
But the threads have started fraying –
button-eyes are out of place, and
my fingers will tremble as I unlace,
your stuffed hands from back again, around my waist,
praying, puppet love, for a smile.
.
.
For the comedians

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