The Shirt

I held it up to the window.

The cotton was so thin

I could see my palm through it.

The lines on my palm.

The small creases.

At the seams, it was worse.

The thread had worn to almost nothing.

One pull and it would tear.

I didn't pull.

I just stood there in the morning

looking at my own hand

moving through fabric

that used to be a barrier.

There's a difference between something

falling apart and something becoming

something else. This was both.

The shirt had thinned the way skin thins.

The way things that hold you

slowly stop holding.

I folded it. Put it back.

Not ready to throw it away.

Not while I can still see

the ghost of my hand

moving through it.