Pulled it from the box that plaid so dull

Pulled it from the box, that plaid so dull

it almost hurt to look. The flimsy pull

of threads, where once a bold red crossed a blue.

My childhood bed, what I once clung to.

For picnics now, a ground cloth for the ants.

So thin, you see the grass through tiny rents.

I held it up. The light just streamed right through

where friction wore the fabric, me and you

were once beneath it, hiding from the dark.

Now just a ghost, a threadbare, faded mark.

It smells of dust, and something else, a faint,

forgotten sweetness, like a whispered saint.

I folded it, the corners didn't meet.

Too much has gone. The memory's bittersweet.

Just worn-out weave. No magic left to hold.

Just stories, in the fabric, growing old.