Cling

We pull things to us,
try to cloak, clothe and comfort ourselves
but every new layer stifles,
leaves a polyester itch.


All the things we thought 
would fill the gap, don’t.
They widen the ravine,
deepen the crevasse,
hurt.

Everything added but not truly ours
shears away the essential,
debrides life, creates a surface 
to which the unnecessary sticks.

Every clung thing leaves us lonely.
Let go. Let go.