Threadbare

Pulled it out, from the bottom drawer's deep,

that faded t-shirt, secrets it keeps.

Soft as a sigh, it draped in my hand,

the comfort of decades, I understand.

But holding it up, to the window's thin gleam,

a tiny dark spot, just tearing the seam.

A whisper of air, through a thread-worn space,

a small imperfection, I can't quite erase.

It held its shape, through wash after wash,

but even the softest, will eventually slash.

And what was once perfect, begins to give way,

a little less whole, with each passing day.