an indeterminately large number of my thoughts, regardless of the part of you wherein they originate, veer wildly off course and, losing all direction, drive onwards only to the past, to little things. a silent look, a sour face, a motion of your hands that fuse together in my mind into a web of lies and hurt, of thoughtless words.

i spin this web out of you. 

i spin this web out of you, no doubt, in the hope that it will catch me when i fall, or that i will be too tangled up in it to be pushed of that cliff but it's sticky and overbearingly hot and increasingly uncomfortable and so today i hace decided to brush it out of the dusty recesses of my mind.