Twisting threads
bound at the end;
tied up in knots
we cannot mend.

Also the bond
between me and you
is frayed and worn-
unlike when new.

Charmed as I was
by your manner,
saw with rose-tinted glasses
games for you: thought it was care.

The knots grow tighter
Do they know the fare?
The threads are still twisting,
are they about to tear?

Perfect is not right;
troubled, tense maybe-
But if this twisting goes on;
this bond would no longer be.