Funke910
TEXTure (Week #11 – texture)
I remember that the words you said in that coffeeshop last May were ragged, as if they’d been cut by a pair of scissors you kept in your throat as they made their way out of you. When I touched them I could feel their edges between my fingers, like torn cloth. You coughed. I tried to fit your words back together, but even if I matched them up perfectly I knew I would have had to fasten them with stitches, and anyone will tell you that no matter how well you sew, a hand knows a seam when it feels one.
A hand always knows a seam. I remember the texture of what you said. The words themselves, I have forgotten.
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