Thread Count

From the dryer, still warm,

the new sheet, stiff and flat.

A promise held, against all harm,

where sleep might softly land and scat-

ter quiet.

Then the old one, pulled from the pile,

so thin, you could almost see through.

Frayed at the edge, after a while,

a worn-out softness, tried and true.

The light caught fuzz, small pills that clung,

a history of nights, pressed deep.

A story in each thread, unsung,

of secrets it was meant to keep.

Not new, not smooth, just used.