You wrapped your finger around the loose end
and pulled and pulled and pulled until
it broke;
an absentminded afterthought
hurriedly shoved into the armrest of my car
on your way out.
The hemmed end of your shirt left frayed and
blowing in the wind as
you walked away;
a sad reminder of how it used to be before
it’s innards were pulled out.

Weeks fall away and it still sits there—
the small ball of pink thread;
the mark of your territory on my heart.
The last piece of you. The only thing
holding us together.