its not like i don’t have more clothes
or that its my favorite pair
it just fits me in a way
that i really would’ve supposed
life and people to fit me
when i were really small
and by small i mean my age, young
and now, at this age
i think my ego forbids me to
acknowledge much than i would want to
but the feelings remain the same
its what it wears that same
piece of clothing
again and again
because it knows my skin
each cell in my body
being aware of its existence
and it might have started feeling to me
like home, a place of familiarity
beyond belief
beyond the actual existence of one such place
and maybe that every vein
and every strand of my hair
and every drop of blood flowing through
is not prepared to let go of that
That that feels like home
One that might not even exist.