In the thrift store light I brush against threads

In the thrift store light, I brush against threads,

a worn-out sweater, its softness embeds.

Each fiber a memory, a whisper of touch,

something so simple could carry so much.

The label, rough edges, pulling away,

feels like the past, wanting to stay.

With each tug, the fabric unwinds and reveals,

the weight of existence, the truth that it feels.