Threadbare Stain

From the wicker basket, stiff with age,

I pull a shirt, turning a clean, thin page.

Once bright, now faded, worn and fine,

a ghost of comfort, subtly mine.

This threadbare patch, where sun comes through,

a coffee ring, a faint, pale blue.

It tells a tale, a clumsy spill,

a quiet morning, standing still.

So many washes, so much time,

this cheap soft thing, past its prime.

It holds the shape of me, my heat,

a quiet witness, bittersweet.

And I hold it close, this fragile shred,

of ordinary life, unsaid.

Just cotton clinging, soft and thin,

a small, sad history within.