Wind's alight through the half-drawn shade,
Catching threads on sleeves she never made.
Just bought them new, each fall too quick to mend,
Too tired to pretend it wouldn't end.
She folds the wool like holding back the years,
Neat creases hiding all the unshed tears.
Drawers full of things too small to keep,
But too heavy to release into the deep.
Then her thumb catches something smooth and round,
Knotted in the dust, a button tightly wound.
Faded blue to match, she matched me too,
The night the silence started growing slow.
I left it loose the night I walked away,
A tiny hold I couldn't make stay.
Now every stitch recalls your hand,
Tugging on what I didn't understand.
She turns it over in her palms so dry,
No storm, no slammed doors, just a quiet life.
«I'll fix it later», while packing fast,
And left the needle buried in the past.
Still threading...
Still Threading
© Copyright: Василий Александрович Кондратьев, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126102706867
Свидетельство о публикации №126102706867
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