Worn Muslin Memories

The cloth is thin, worn down

where fingers once pulled tight,

a faded weave with holes

that catch dust and light.

It might have been a curtain,

a dress, or something soft,

but now it’s just a rag

holding years in folds.

I run my palm across it,

feeling the brittle threads

and the way it’s frayed

like a quiet forgetting.

A fragile thing, caught

between use and neglect,

a soft witness to time

and all the hands that held it.