Just one—

a pale, fine strand

clinging to the back of the old kitchen chair.

Caught in a slant of late light,

it shimmered—

something holy,

or forgotten.

And just like that,

my mind unraveled—

To spiderwebs stretched beneath the bridge,

the ones you swore

only showed up on moonlit nights.

To a full moon rising slow

over fields gone gold at summer’s end.

To baby’s breath—

gathered with a ribbon,

pressed between pages in a book

we never finished.

The linoleum still creaks

like it did back then,

when we danced barefoot after dinner,

your hands full of dish soap,

mine of song.

And the smell of scorched toast

comes back with no warning—

I always laughed

at how you never could get it right.

Said the toaster was cursed.

Said you liked it that way.

The screen door still slaps shut

just the same in late July,

as if time never bothered to pass.

Funny,

how one small thing

can open a hundred doors—

each one leading to

you,

and you again,

always and ever,

you.