A Thread
Even in the baby pictures you wear a thick sweater.
August comes and the rough knitting still paints itself across your chest.
The wool has always spiraled down from your neck,
Catching bands of crimson and merigold along the way.
But two summers ago the colors lost their brilliance;
My mother was gone and your love was lost,
Buried under a pile of clothes and tainted months.
Sickness still permeates the closet.
Now it is you leaving me, not by your choice but mine.
No country field nor one-light town would fill the black hole in my memory.
Sweat beads your face in the stagnant city air,
But you don no short sleeves nor mockery for your resilience.
You force a smile and a thread dangles from your arm.
I think of pulling it, but fear you may unravel altogether.
You wave goodbye and I wonder if I will be the one to fall apart,
Your head held high above the sanguine fabric
While I disintegrate.
August comes and the rough knitting still paints itself across your chest.
The wool has always spiraled down from your neck,
Catching bands of crimson and merigold along the way.
But two summers ago the colors lost their brilliance;
My mother was gone and your love was lost,
Buried under a pile of clothes and tainted months.
Sickness still permeates the closet.
Now it is you leaving me, not by your choice but mine.
No country field nor one-light town would fill the black hole in my memory.
Sweat beads your face in the stagnant city air,
But you don no short sleeves nor mockery for your resilience.
You force a smile and a thread dangles from your arm.
I think of pulling it, but fear you may unravel altogether.
You wave goodbye and I wonder if I will be the one to fall apart,
Your head held high above the sanguine fabric
While I disintegrate.