Forgotten beneath a pile of clothes,
with the intricate weaves desiring escapism,
I miss the spinner of these threaded relics,
and adore the art of binding them together.

Cobwebs perceive me as their abode,
and dust rocks in my cradle,
as I whisper the tales of kindred dwellers
haunted by my covert scrutiny for years.

I'm a stranger to the delicacy
of the fingers I sheltered,
yet familiar to the cacophony
of secrets they cherished.

When the glistening stars ascend,
I stretch beneath their gentle grasp,
and as the dawn breathes through the panes,
I unravel into forgotten threads.