Every tangle has a centre, and every centre is another world. Fall through them as slowly as you like. Nothing here is finished, which is the point.
Nothing to untie. Just look at how many colours it takes.
Let the strands part for you. Every colour at once.
Not because it planned to. Because it kept moving.
Colours that were never quiet. Fly through them anyway.
The same threads, a different afternoon.
Moss, sage, lime, forest. Breathe in here.
A single bright thread in the middle of all the rest. That's all an idea is.
Crimson, brick, wine, rose. Let it be warm.
Folds on folds. Soft, loose, still settling into place.
Nothing matches. Nothing needs to.
Lavender to plum to indigo. And inside it…