Fray

I stepped over the rope caught on my boots,

its rough strands pulling at the threadbare hem

of a jacket I forgot I wore.

Salt and old rain in its fibers,

a smell like the first damp day of fall.

The hemp unraveled slow,

like a sweater stretched thin by winters

that never stop pulling at the edges.

Each loose thread a story worn

and forgotten,

softening, breaking apart in the wind.

I wanted to stop and hold it,

feel the coarse strands slip through my fingers,

but the tide called me back—

the rope left behind,

an echo of something falling apart.