Threads of Discontent

This morning I noticed, it’s gone, the small round,

that kept my shirt from spilling its secrets and sighs.

Now it hangs open, a thin thread unbound,

like a whispering ghost, under a gaze that denies.

I reached for the spot where it used to hold tight,

the absence a tug on the fabric of me,

how easy it is for the little things to bite,

like the moments that slip into memories we flee.

Life’s woven together with buttons and threads,

sometimes they fall, and the stitches grow frayed,

yet here I stand, though the fabric it treads,

a reminder that chaos is often displayed.