The Threads We Hold

Every word a fiber drawn from the dark, knotted to the next, a luminous web we walk across without looking down.

I've unraveled a sentence once, watched meaning scatter like thread ends, how quickly the weave becomes merely yarn and air.

In your silence I learned the finest stitches are those invisible, the ones that hold not because they're strong but because we pretend.

And still we stitch, we knot, we bind— as if fraying weren't the default, as if anything could last besides this: the reaching.