Pink yarn so soft in a window frame

Pink yarn, so soft, in a window frame,

a miniature cuff, whispering a name

I don't possess. A sudden pull,

a clench down deep, a kind of full

ache in the gut, a memory of scent,

metallic, sharp, a path I went.

The glass was cold against my cheek,

watching the tiny, folded peak

of knit. So small, a hand could hide

inside that sock, tucked close beside

another. A breath caught, then released.

The world moved on. The ache increased.