Threads

For Tim

 

Small coils of fibres, 

snake like, lying 

on the bathroom floor.

Sometimes in a heap of knotted cotton

on your bedroom tiles.

Always on, under and around your desk.

Pick. Pick. Pick.

Strings of anxiety.

I follow a tail of blue and black strands

to pants without legs,

shirts without arms.

Blankets and sheets

with hems undone.

More clothing to buy.

More linen to replace.

I toss the thread in the bin,

when all I really wish

is to be able to connect those threads

and put you 

back together.