The Seamstress Concedes

She sits in the moonlight
by the window,
drawing circles along the edge.
Twirls her hair without thought.
She fingers the edge of the hole
delicately,
so as not to destroy
the integrity of the fabric.
Not hiding underneath an arm
or on a seam at the back where
no one will pay any mind.
It is here. Spreading out in the public eye
for all civilized society to see
and comment on the tragedy.
She feels the ache in her heart.
Tastes the salt in rivulets upon her cheek.
She feels the weight
of every decision as the silk runs through her fingers.
This is the thing
that becomes irrevocable.
The tear that cannot be mended.
Frayed ends seeking but never finding whole again.
It is:
too central
too prominent
to the character of the garment.
It has become a part of it.

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