Gray Thread

In the sink, a strand lies bright,

silver against the dark of night.

Caught by light, a brittle crack,

a sudden mark on a face I track.

The mug rinsed out, but in the drain,

a thread of years refuses to wane.

It hums beneath the bathroom hum,

a quiet crack where youth comes undone.

One strand, sharp and cold as stone,

a flash of time I’ve never known.

The kitchen light flickers and fades,

a glimpse of aging softly invades.