At first glance it is a beautiful fabric, and craved,
it seems, by many. Delicately made and intricate,
so it should be hard to destroy, surely? After all,
the time and effort, feeling and emotion, put into it,
what a waste it would be to ruin such a fine thing.
It is strong, and it is complex. But it is no longer mine.
And still it stays here as a relic, resting softly on the
skin he used to kiss. One has to wonder in a time
of great desperation and loneliness, whether the
cotton is strong enough, whether I am strong enough,
to tie a noose around my neck. And let it hang.