The unraveled thread

After the last email, the polite sign-off,

and the 'what do you even do for fun?'

that felt like a spotlight on an empty stage,

I find the chair, the one by the window

that doesn't quite seal out the street noise.

My jacket, old and familiar, always there.

My fingers go to the cuff.

There's always a loose thread.

Not a snag, just a stray loop of cotton

waiting to be undone. I twist it,

slow, between thumb and forefinger,

until it weakens, a thin ghost of fiber,

and snaps. Another one, then another.

A tiny pile collects on the floor, dust-colored,

a quiet unmaking, proof

I was here, unobserved, for a while.