Whorl, Whirl, Whirlpool

At first, I smugly thought the lines
were the whorls of my thumbprint.
my imprint upon your features—
you who blended so easily
Into the wall of my existence.
Then, examining more closely,
I realized the pattern detected
was the whirl of that
“Mystic Hypnotizing Trick”
toy you carry in your pocket.
Whirling, whirling, you press
until it covers your face, and become
a whirlpool slowly
drawing me into
your depths, your darkness—
deeper than I really want to go,
drowning me in you.