i feel small

the cold air stings my damp hands, reflecting the chill i feel with your breath on my cheek.
instead these are clean sheets that i hang; symmetrical on plastic coated line. my stitches are movement, feedback dancers or acrobats. thank you.
my grip is tight and unnerving, regardless of ghosted daydreams.
the two and a half of you share a distinct link... though i didn't see it for myself - only after it had been relayed thrice with awful definition.
this new rope is hard to follow; sickness and schedule conflicts... but it's still there. i'm just finding it hard to adjust - the proximity of geometric shapes seems, now, like a prediction, a projection, minus the upward inflection.
i feel small again.