The tapestry woven

 they say you are the sum of everyone you've ever known so it must be true, then—

 you are a tapestry woven together by hands that have loved you—

patchwork

stitched into your skin

etched in your every movement

 i have everything i have ever loved embroidered across my chest 

you still hum that tune your uncle sang two summers ago, 

carrying it through every sunny afternoon,

not because it’s catchy,

but because it carries the quiet healing that buzzed through the warmth 

 a week before June

you turn the handle of your boiling broth away from your body,

a habit born from Mr. Moran’s warning in fifth grade,

about scalding liquid—

a lesson you carry in the muscle memory of your hands,

though he's long since forgotten your name

you salt your water,

add a dash of honey,

as your chemistry teacher once told you,

it will provide you with energy better than any sports drink

 when a friend pulls you toward the Lego aisle, you wince, pause, smile,

and say, "i’ll meet you at the register."

have you outgrown those building blocks? or does the scent of plastic bricks bring you back to a house once built by someone who's no longer there?

 you fold your pajamas each morning,

tucking them beneath your pillow,

 a habit

 but not yours, 

 you fold them because a piece of you can’t let go even though the air between you two has grown cold

 your white gym shoes,

weathered by the past—

scuffed, torn, worn, rough—

but you cannot let them…

him go

you still speak in the accent your college roommates invented,

you devour waffles at midnight,

stop to watch the robins perch,

and throw strawberry tops over your left shoulder,

waiting for the bark that used to follow

but now,

it’s just a memory that makes your heart ache in the hollow spaces left behind

you pack an extra dinner on evening shifts

meant for a little man in blue,

and in the mornings 

you chop your eggs aggressively 

like a someone you once knew,

still check food labels for tree nuts,

take the long way home,

stare nostalgically at navy blue cars,

keep your shoulders back while lifting,

and then 

as you drift into sleep

you remember 

the whisper of a heartbeat fading

farther into the dark

I hear a tiny one too.

you are a tapestry woven together by hands that have loved you—

 you carry them with you—

voices, habits, fingerprints

pressed into your soul,

your life is a collection of love,

 glued together by hands once intertwined

with yours

i am a tapestry woven together by hands that have loved me—

hands that have loved me

and i love them too.