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
3 comments
this is exactly why I don’t buy or wear clothes
much better to strut around and be all naked,
just like one was born, alone, cold, freezing, wet and sticky, naked
why not stay just like that, stay way one was born, forever,
no sweaters and no cobwebs
just cold, wet and sticky, naked, freezing. forever. until one is unborn.
I think you missed the metaphor haha.
i think I got it,
in my own madness induced crazy way