My fingers stretch out onto the cloth.

So hospitable, it embraces me.

My fingers sink into it, as if succeeding in my dreams of touching the clouds.

It passes through, almost intangible, almost invisible to the naked eye.

It’s so fragile. The material, it’s almost like a cloud. Almost like the duvets in my mothers room.

But my hand doesn’t pass through it, it just leaves an imprint. A piece of evidence of my existence.

My hands carress the ridges of the imperfect material, admiring the intricate nature of the sown braids.

The dust shining in the golden lit room compliments the warm embrace of the unearthly experience.

It’s heavenly. It’s something you would gladly see covering your dead body, your discolored face.

I drape it across me, pretending I am not who I am.

I am someone with comfort. I am someone who is sinking, drowning by the velvetly reaper.

My hand is imprinted onto the silk, my hand is imprinted which degrades the material. It dirties the value, my hand has destroyed something so delicate in exchange of leaving a large etch.

I fall into the comforting material, I volunterily drown into the ocean that drapes me with embroidery of all sorts.