Worn Thin

I’m rubbing my knuckles against the dry cotton

until the moisture of the sink is forgotten.

But the cloth is a ghost, a transparent sheet

that gives up the struggle and admits its defeat.

There’s a splash of white bleach on the bottom-left side,

a pale, jagged continent where the color has died.

It looks like a map of a place I once knew

back when the fabric was heavy and new.

A single loose thread catches the edge of my skin,

pulling a loop from the weave that’s gone thin.

It’s barely a towel, just a memory of grit,

hanging on the stove handle, waiting to quit.