I found no comfort in the soft cotton of his tattered grey-tshirt.
They say after someone dies you find solace in their belongs:
The socks he used to leave on bedroom floor,
His worn leather jacket,
The moth eaten t-shirts you had once begged him to throw out.
Somehow these items become … sacred?
Yet no one tells you what to do
When the ragged t-shirts no longer smell of his spiced cologne,
But sag damply with the smell of your sweat,
And the holes are no longer made by flittering moths,
But burned with tears.