Fuzzy Remnants

The hamper spilled its guts,

old cotton, sour with doubt.

And there, beneath the crust

of things I'd meant to sort out,

was this. Your sweater. Still.

Its grey, a faded sky.

Each tiny fuzz-ball, a small, soft pill,

a barnacle, refusing to die.

I dragged it out, the coldit off the sudden air.

This threadbare thing, so old,

so worn, beyond repair.

It caught my eye, a clinging mess,

like certain thoughts, or needs.

A quiet, cheap, small tenderness

that no one ever heeds.