repair is an act of love. it's a commitment to something that you won't let it fall to pieces. and it's such a uniquely human thing, the ability to see something's falling into disrepair and to change it through our own action.
even as i thread the needle again and again, this thing i wear slowly comes back together. my clumsy fingers are pocked with the tiniest holes. my clumsy stitches might last weeks if i'm lucky, but i love doing it. a clumsy heart beats in a clumsy chest, feeding a clumsy mind which loves and is loved, ever-persistent against the entropy that'd see all of them, heart, chest, mind, thing, needle, thread, quietly dispersed across the universe.
i take a sniff. the smell of love and time and body and floral detergent. i'm here in this moment and it is love