Later

I was curious about your house.
Stepped lightly on your web.
You trapped me,
saved me for later.
Later isn't here.
As I dart my eyes from left to right,
under the night sky,
I question if later
is coming.
It feels like a claustrophobic,
slow,
death.
I'm bundled in a tight comfort
that approaches perfect
but lacks room for growth.
I feel stuck in this web.
The house is closing in while you sit
stare
and breathe fire and heat.
Waiting to be free
to stretch
and run
is starting to feel
like torture.