Pull

Mind turns to the pull, it’s hard to pull away — Jeanette Winterson

You’re my baseline
my backing track
my mind — at rest.

You’re the pesky butterfly;
the tome
whose pages turn themselves.

And when I push for the hills
your name
is on all the street signs,

and the radio
only ever has songs
about you.

You’re the itch.
I can never scratch —
but I yearn still.