The Last Thread

The drawer gave a whine,

a protest from the wood.

And there it was, that grey,

the shirt I’d understood

was gone forever.

I pulled it out, felt its thinness,

a ghost of what had been.

The collar frayed, a stain

I couldn't scrub clean.

I recall the heat,

the way it clung to skin.

It wasn't just the fabric,

where did that feeling begin?

It was the universe, held close,

a perfect, desperate spin.

Now just this rag, worn out and done,

beneath a different sun.