The Quiet Hold of Wool

This sweater—worn fuzz like tired skin,

catching sunlight in tangled heaps,

hands tangled in a fabric that never lets go.

I dropped it once,

the sleeve snagged my ankle—

a soft trap I didn’t want to escape.

The thick wool holds the room's dim light,

caught between shadows slipping through the blinds.

Frayed threads speak in a quiet language,

of something stretched thin,

but not broken.

It stays,

a ragged promise,

a shape that fits without asking.