I like the way the threads become embroidered to my memories,

So effortlessly, as if they were night around constellations.

Lively mnemonic textures of every place I've been to,

That swirl around my wrist and my ankles.

 

Well made knots allow the patterns to endure the traverse of the day,

And their tint remains intact, seemingly ceaseless,

Because good thread doesn't lose its color.

Nor it ever lose the taste of the person who’s worn them.

Nor it ever lose the essence of the person who made them.

 

At times they are shackles, I choose to wear, so I may keep myself linked

To the remembrance of the people and cities I have loved the most.

And even when they’re gone, for any or no particular reason,

Their shadows still silhouette blissfully on my skin,

As if they wished to every so often be remembered.

 

My favorites, I’ve lost, and given away.

But surely I still think of them profoundly.

Certainly, I might never see them again.

But surely honored I wore them.

Certainly, delighted they, at some point or another

have loved me.