Threads of the Infinite

 Threads of the Infinite

The morning drifts in like a whisper,
soft against the ribs of the waking world.
Sunlight spills in fractured shards
across the floorboards,
painting stories only silence can read.
I walk barefoot across this canvas,
tracing invisible threads
that stitch yesterday to tomorrow.

The city hums like a restless heart,
its pulse tangled in neon veins.
I hear voices in alleys,
snatches of laughter,
the sigh of a tired tram.
Every step I take carries a memory,
folded neatly in the pocket of my coat,
yet some slip like raindrops
through the sieve of attention,
lost before they touch the ground.

Time is a mason, relentless,
shaping the contours of our fragile hopes.
We build towers of longing,
and yet every brick is borrowed,
every window a promise
we are too timid to break.
I watch strangers on the street—
their eyes are continents
I cannot traverse,
their hands hold storms
I cannot calm.
And still, the threads pull.

I remember a river once,
the way it laughed across stones,
how the water held sunlight
like a secret it would never share.
We stood on its edge,
fingers brushing like shy travelers,
and swore we could carry the world
in our palms.
But the river laughed still,
and I learned
that the world cannot be held,
only touched,
briefly,
and let go.

The sky now darkens,
a quiet argument between day and night.
Streetlights flicker awake,
tiny lanterns of human stubbornness.
I pass a café where music lingers,
a violin, a voice,
both trembling like old glass.
Inside, people exist in their small universes,
hands wrapped around warmth,
eyes locked on reflections
that never quite match the face.

I think of letters never sent,
of words trapped behind the ribs of my own hesitation.
Each one a heartbeat,
each one a confession
that could rewrite the constellations
in someone’s private sky.
But I walk past,
letting the threads stretch thin,
pulling me forward
like an unseen hand
guiding the reluctant voyager.

Evening tastes like ink and rain.
I smell the perfume of distant fires,
the quiet burn of candles in apartment windows.
Somewhere, laughter leaps like sparks
from a hearth I cannot see.
I breathe in the city,
its endless breath,
and feel the edges of myself
soften into shadow.
Perhaps this is the truest intimacy—
the recognition that all we can hold
is fleeting,
and still, we reach.

A train passes,
its lights slicing the dark like silver knives.
It carries people who will never meet again,
yet in this moment,
they exist
in the same fleeting frame as I do.
And I understand—
every life is a poem,
every encounter a verse
we compose unknowingly,
writing in the margins of one another’s hearts.

Night deepens.
Stars gather like quiet witnesses,
and I feel the threads more clearly now:
interwoven destinies,
tiny sparks of empathy
in the grand tapestry.
I close my eyes and imagine
all the hands I will never hold,
all the voices I will never hear,
and still, a warmth rises
from knowing we are all connected
by invisible, insistent lines.

So I walk onward,
feet sinking into damp earth,
breath mingling with wind.
The threads hum in my ears,
a melody of infinite patience.
I am small, yes,
but the threads do not care.
They stretch beyond desire, beyond fear,
beyond the reach of any single life.
And for the first time, I understand:
to be alive is to be stitched
into something eternal,
a poem without end,
a story still writing itself
with every heartbeat,
every glance,
every moment
we dare to exist.