Phantom Thread

preamble: ground your love thin, so thin it pierces easily through the eye of the needle, so thin it binds skin to skin. among a swirl of infatuating toxins and fabric organza, we are taught the art of immortality. it’s not the immortality of a house under reynolds’ obsessive hand, dying quietly in an acrid puddle of chiffon and “chic”. it’s the immortality of a promise, to keep it from dust and ghosts and time. immortality is the lock of hair forever sewn into the canvas of your suit, the well-worn tears you welcome at every wake, the detective to the greatest mystery. reynolds and alma hold our hands through the grandeur of spiraling staircases and quiet confessions. They dance a strange little dance, twisting and turning to the haunting tune love sings—at times discordant, but love’s song, still. they stare is silence; rather, the presence of each other. An interruption—the snap of sliced butter, the crack of falling water, the sizzle of an omelet frying quickly in the pan. i’ve never been so hungry.