Posted in poetry, Writing

Threadbare

I have become

the thread that hangs

from your sleeve

the blue shirt

that you wore for brunch

the one that brings out the

madness in your eyes

and the ice in your veins

I am

tickling your wrist

a panic

that perhaps it was a spider

crawling higher up your arm

to perch on your collar

and whisper

that I’ve hated you for so

long

maybe I’ll be the dead

grazing your flesh

to remember

to forget

to know

that the balance of all

that we were

hangs on a thread

that you’ll eventually

pull

and discard

onto the floor-

but what else

is

new?

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2 thoughts on “Threadbare

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