The time we spend, curled up, stretched out, together, it’s silk. Exquisite and delicate. But it slips through my fingers. The cliché is “like water”, but that’s too harsh, too rapid and finite. Silk flows away with grace, with airiness. It strokes and tickles as it goes, leaving a few last delights, but it goes just the same. That’s the moments we spend together. They’re wonderful, but too hard to grasp. I want to cling on, sometimes I manage to grip and get a bit longer in that time and space, but the moment always ends up falling away.
And yet, out of silk, wonderful clothes can be made. Things that can be worn. That stay put. It takes time, it takes patience and it takes work, but out of the material something lasting can be stitched. And maybe silken moments can be made to last as well.