Unraveling

My fingers find the thread first,

a single cotton whisper

dangling from a faded sleeve,

trembling in the cold city wind.

The bus shelter bench bites

through thinning fabric,

a slow unraveling beneath restless hands.

Each tug a silent warning,

a fray that could grow

beyond my control,

a line I can't stitch back,

like the weight of everything

unfolding quietly, undone,

one thread pulling at another,

till the whole thing falls away

and I’m left holding nothing

but the chill.