Familiar Strains

Sitting back down, my jeans brush the chair,

rough corduroy whispers of love in the air.

I remember her sitting, a soft, gentle sigh,

every wrinkle a story, a laugh, or a cry.

Fingers trace ridges, familiar and worn,

the fabric’s embrace feels like coming home.

Threads pulled tight in a tapestry of time,

a warmth woven deep, both tender and prime.