From the drawer's back a slow soft pull

From the drawer's back, a slow, soft pull,

a history, folded, not quite full.

That undershirt, once bright as new,

a morning sun, a sky so true.

Now, a faint stain where the neck would rest,

a kind of map, put to the test.

The collar's edge, a threadbare line,

the ghost of white, a quiet sign.

How much is lost, how much just changed?

This pale thing, carefully arranged.

It sits there, breathing, thin and old,

a story that has been unrolled.

It used to feel so clean, so free.

Now, just a thing that used to be.