Threadbare

The jacket’s cuff, a whisper torn,

a threadbare edge of yesterday worn.

Brown suede whispers, rough and dull,

worn spots where memories pull.

Folded carelessly on a chair,

a quiet echo fills the air.

Frayed edges tell their ragged tales,

softness lost in small details.

Light catches one loose thread,

a lifeline tangled in the dead.

Lunch hours melting in slow decay,

a moment folded, brushed away.

Worn too thin to keep the cold,

touched and torn but still it holds.

Something forgotten stitched in grain,

silent witness to a slow drain.