I remember all the things he said
about teaching himself how to sew.
All the words run through my head.
Tales of the stitches his needle led
took time to learn, even though
I remember all the things he said.
Like how tugging on a single, frayed thread
is one of those things you’ll outgrow.
All the words run through my head.
Or how his preferred strand of red
reminded him of his favorite merlot.
I remember all the things he said.
He even admitted to the fires he spread,
as if the field was meant for him to sow.
All the words run through my head.
Though when he ripped my seams to the tread,
I stitched it myself just to show
that I remember all the things he said.
All of his words run through my head.
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