Cashmere

You were the cashmere sweater

that I pined after,

stopping at shop after shop,

in the hopes that I might finger your fabric,

and that maybe one of your threads

would cling to my clothing.

I smashed my piggybank,

and scavenged the flood of porcelain shards

for change.

I clung your parcel to my breast,

fearful you would disappear from my arms

before I brought you home.

I pulled you over my body,

fearful of an ill-fated fit,

and in fact, you fit too finely.

Your arms engulfed mine,

and you drowned me in an ocean of fabric.
You changed scents when I wore you,

adapting poorly to my thickened skin like cheap perfume.

Once, you reeked of brand new.

Now, you reek of little disappointments:

second-hand smoke,

a stranger’s spilled coffee,

the musk of a woman who rubbed up against you.

I took you off and folded you neatly,

with a past-tense type of love,

and I placed you

in the corner of my room that collects loneliness like cobwebs