Your ropes.

How they tie and how they deny.
But appeal has bound them tight.
Strands of you wrapped around my mind, I want my arms wrapped around you and to give up trying.
Your ropes are all in knots and they can´t be easily untied.
Made of hemp or made of horse hair, or the steel trail of lonely tears cried.
Your ropes will one day be in my hands and each manouvre will see you tickled and lifted up high.
Until that bond is met, I want the constrictive desperation to subside.