Coming Apart

Mid-sentence during the call,

I reached up and felt the empty space

where something should have held it all.

The threads are there—two of them,

pale and waiting,

the exact length of two slim

things meant to hold something that's gone.

I don't know when I lost it.

It could have been yesterday

or whenever I didn't notice it

slip away.

The gap in the shirt is small,

barely visible, but now I can't

stop feeling for the empty space where

something should be there.

I can't stop touching it

during the conversation about numbers,

during the moment when people listen

and I'm supposed to seem together.

The shirt is still professional.

The shirt still works fine.

It's just missing the thing to compel

the fabric to stay whole.

It's missing the small circle

that keeps it from falling open,

that prevents the small miracle

of still being held.

I could sew it back on.

I could find a replacement button,

push the needle through, move on,

make it secure and tight.

But instead I just wear it,

just keep feeling for the gap,

just keep bearing

the knowledge that I'm held together

by luck instead of fasteners,

by habit instead of design.

The meeting ends. I cover it

with my jacket. Nobody saw.

Nobody noticed my small exhibit

of slowly coming undone.