The silken network of threads thin inside me; those webs that stick to everything that I am. They thin, inch by inch, but strengthen, holding on to heart and lung and liver and spleen. They hang on to sinew; but muscles and bones don’t grown. They hang on to elusive time and love spent dry. The thinning web spreads through veins, lengthening along a stretch of miles, traveling at the speed of blood. The blood needs the darkness to cleanse and the light to live. And breathe. It needs me inside you, nestled into a place we thought we’d lost forever.