Instructions For Sewing a Shadow

First,
wait until he’s sleeping—
the kind of sleep only boys
with unbroken hearts can manage.

Quiet as snowfall,
gather the pieces he keeps losing:
the part that doubts,
the part that wants,
the part that promises
tomorrow.

Lay them across the floorboards
like a crime scene
or a pattern to follow.

In low lamplight you’ll see
they’re thinner than you remember—
shapes that flicker
when you look too closely,
dark where your hands
have worn through.

Thread your needle with promise.
Not the pink kind,
or the kind whispered
in the warmth of June—
use the winter-thread,
the one strong enough
to hold a man to himself.

Stitch gently.
Shadows bruise easily.

When he stirs, say, It’s nothing.
Keep working.
Tug—not too hard, not too soft—
the balance you learned
from loving people
who never learned you.

If the seams don’t hold,
if the shadow slips free
the moment he runs,
don’t blame your hands.
They were steady.

It’s just that some men
prefer to travel light.

And if you find yourself
alone by morning,
needle cooling in your palm,
thread slack with goodbye—

fold the shadow you saved for him.
Place it in a drawer
with the other things you repaired
that no one returned for.

Close it.

Turn away.

Notice how your own shadow
moves with you—
how it never needed stitching
to stay.