Threadbare Comfort

Fingers sift through tangled pills,

threads worn thin where elbows met cold tables,

yet still I fold it with a reverence

reserved for things that have held too much.

Every fuzz ball a lazy Sunday,

a careless pull from caught stitches,

a forgotten breath held in wool.

The holes—tiny caves—I cover gently,

not with patch or shame but with hands

that remember the shape of comfort.

It smells faintly of old rain and dust,

a scent stitched deep into the fibers,

safe enough to carry even when it frays,

a ragged armor for skin too tender to bare.