silk-spun, on the sly

What odd exchanges qualify as communication of need in the knots overtaking you in the evening hours when you announce defeat in the ashes of daylight, make flakes of rusted metal from the equations and proofs of every sensation, and when, you copper-wire-catatonics, take electric cities in the palms of your hands and clasp their many-colored moonbeams in neatly subdued plastic lockets?