To Be Worn

She wanted to be worn.
Worn down, lovingly,
In the way that can only be
Accomplished over eons of use,
In the manner of his favourite blazer.
Worn till the elbows are shiny.
She didn’t want to be worn out,
But rather, worn over,
Like a worrying stone kept
In close reach, in the lefthand pocket
Caressed when needed.
And like the natural erosion—
Stone smoothed by rushing river—
She wanted him to be as constant:
As unceasingly adoring and indifferent.
She was vexed by her own mutability.
Her kitelike flitting—
Fearing she’d fly
Before his hands and words
Had fully bound her;
Before he could discover her pockets
And buttons.
But she took comfort,
In finding he was her tether.
She might fly
But his heartstrings kept her close.