The Suspicion of the Inner Pocket

It is not the frayed hem that accuses,
nor the missing button making sound.
Under the cloth, a shadow pronounces,
a mute defect without color found.
It is the inner pocket, its hidden boundary,
where the world relies ceaselessly,
and every little thing is a datum
to this silent trust.

But an invisible rustle, a subtle shiver,
a thread that surrenders to time.
The weave loosens, without any sound,
and what was kept, in the meantime,
slips away, a grain of sand,
a shining coin, a mute secret.
The small abyss that swallows and steals,
leaving an almost sensed void.

Absence does not scream, it leaves no clear sign,
but a crack in the usual order.
That little which escapes, a weight too rare,
leaves suspicion, an unresolved desire.
It is the broken promise of shelter,
the inherent weakness, never confessed,
the shadow of nothing, a cost too dear,
in the hidden intimacy, never shown.