One Loose Strand

The kettle hums, a low, slow drone.

My worn-out sweatshirt, grey and soft.

And there it is, stubbornly shown,

a single thread, pulled far aloft.

From the cuff, a cotton strand, so slight,

almost invisible against the weave.

But it's there, catching the kitchen light,

a small refusal to believe.

That everything is held in place,

tight and strong, as it should be.

Just a tiny fray, a little space,

reminding me of what's unfree.

I could snip it, make it clean and neat.

But it hangs there, a small, frayed end.

A slow undoing, bittersweet,

just waiting for the whole thing to unbend.