Half-Wound

I found your spool buried in the drawer,

the red thread faded, almost pink,

wound tight around the wood, a link

to something that you started for.

The label wore away to white,

the thread so brittle, thin,

as if the unraveling had to begin

because nothing ended right.

I held it like a question mark,

like proof that some things stop,

that people leave their work unwrapped,

and leave it here, alone in the dark.

The spool was smooth where hands had been,

where fingers wound it down and up,

a cycle like a cup

that never empties and stays clean.

Some things don't finish.

Some things just wait

inside a drawer, their fate

to sit here half-diminished.