f. t. w.

he used to roll his eyes at me

when I told him

I was wrapped around his finger.

only now can I agree

how silly that thought was.

plenty of women have wrapped themselves

around his perfect fingers.

the idea of that being what I am,

what this is,

is absolutely ludicrous.

he alone

is the dopamine and serotonin

that courses through me.

he resides in my pupils

that have allowed me,

forced me even,

to find five lights in the sky

traveling through time to scream,

“keep searching for your home!”

he is the salt

he coaxes out of me,

the break in breath before

my exasperated inhales,

the energy absorbed

through a single glance.

and still at times, I find myself

wrapped around his finger,

but he is looking into my soul,

as if he found it again

after all this time.