Love / poetry / Poetry / Uncategorized / Writing

Day 341 of 35

In a pile of clothes

to be mended, I find

the slip you broke.


Strap torn away,

small tear left behind

Easy enough to stitch,


I told you, when you paused

at the damage you had done.

Pink thread, fine needle,


a rudimentary sewing ability

passed on from my father’s

days in the Army.  It will look  


like a scar that won’t

fade enough. But, I could

wear it again. It still fits.

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