Half-Worn Silence

I hold the sleeve up,

the frayed thread swinging loose,

the hole puckering like a weak spot

in the fabric’s skin.

One button gone —

tiny absence that pulls the rest askew,

a gap where the thread forgot to bind,

where the cuff opens

like a question without answer.

The shirt folds awkwardly

against my palm,

unfinished.

It’s the difference between tidy and undone,

what gets noticed when you blink,

what slips out of place

and never quite comes back.

The missing button waits there,

quiet fault line

in the cotton’s sigh.