Letters from Xhale the magazine Words that breathe. Stories that Linger,

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The Needle, the Thimble, and the String

The needle.
The thimble.
The string.

You pull—
too far—
and call it reason
when it breaks.

“Thank you” sits on your tongue,
polished,
ready—
never enough.

There was a moment.

You could’ve spoken.
You could’ve given.
You didn’t.

You swallowed it.

Now it lives in you—
heavy,
unmoving—
everything unsaid
pressed into your chest.

You stand straight,
call it balance,
but something in you
is already falling.

You were asked—
once.

Silence answered.

Now a king stands before you,
empty hands,
no blame,
no anger—

only asking
for the love
you kept.

And you—

you have nothing.

Just “thank you,”
thin and late,
slipping through
what’s already broken.

You poor String
You didn’t use
The Thimble
Nor the Needle
The right way