The Blanket's Quiet Memory

Found folded beneath old clothes,

threadbare and soft,

a faded blue patched with loose stitches,

the weight of forgotten nights.

It smells faintly of smoke and old perfume,

a warmth trapped between the worn fibers,

a shield once wrapped tight against cold,

a quiet thing that held more than warmth.

I run fingers over the thinning fuzz,

remembering the chill it chased away,

that threadbare promise pulled close in silence,

shaped by hands no longer here.

The blanket stays folded in my lap—

a faded fragment that still holds

something like comfort,

a memory stitched uneven and slow.