Threadbare Witness

The sun caught its frayed edge

where the fabric thinned like old skin.

Stains—coffee, grease—

etched into the faded stripes

that once stood proud, crisp and clean.

It’s been pressed to chipped cups,

dried tears from mornings

when silence folded over the kitchen.

The towel breathes with the weight

of spilled mornings and quiet goodbyes.

Sometimes I hold it close,

a ragged testament to hands

that never knew to rest,

wiping away the crumbs,

the smoke, the small mistakes

we never quite rinse out.