Broken fingers by the open tips

 Broken fingers by the open tips. In your terminal, sometimes. They think with the subtlety of touch. Where dangerous caresses are discovered. To love thrown Reweavers of the remade threads of waiting. Tissu of salty mist. That rises in the wide distance. Sometimes a prisoner. Dreamy, sometimes. Of the wandering confinement worried. In the center of your reference. That the accursed winds incessantly surround. They spin in the frenzy of flight. Sail against sail. Stick against stick. Broken lips of the search. May the return of pain in anguish return by detouring through the long and terrifying wait.