The Unraveling

A thread pulls free from the hem, and suddenly the whole seam knows how to fail. I watch the fabric come undone—each stitch a small surrender to the air.

Nothing frays the same way twice. The sweater remembers being whole for a moment longer than my hands believe it, as if the wool has been practicing goodbye in the dark of the drawer.

What unravels cannot be rewound. The thread grows lighter as it stretches, becomes something else entirely— not yarn, not fabric, but the space between what held together and what never will.

I gather the loose ends in my palm. They are warm. They still remember the shape of a body, the shelter they promised, before the first pull, the first letting go.