Threadbare Nights

I ran my fingers over the seam,

frayed and soft from countless pulls—

a pillowcase whispering stories

worn thin by sweat and restless dreams.

The cotton thinned, edges rough,

a fragile skin stretched over lumps

of faded stuffing, tired and hollow.

Mother’s voice murmured in the folds—

complaints about good cotton never lasting,

a truth stitched into every thread.

Sleep held tight in worn fabric,

a thousand nights pressed deep,

a ragged comfort barely holding.