Muslin slips over my wrist—

Muslin slips over my wrist—

rough edges catch and pull,

tiny holes like soft wounds

whispering old care.

The pale fabric breathes light

and memory tangled tight,

a fragile skin I don’t dare tear.

Sun catches the fray,

a dance of loose threads

that snag on skin,

tugging at the quiet.

I try to smooth it flat,

but the cloth keeps holding

all the hands that passed before,

soft, worn, and never quite whole.