I noticed one day that my clothes did not fit. They hung off my body like sheets hung outside on the line to dry. A forgotten place. A forgotten face. Your cotton shirt, worn smooth from nights against my skin, now lies rough and ragged, tossed to the floor and kicked to the laundry bin. The trash bin of fabric. Trash talking hearts and hopeless lies try to piece this life together once more. But this shirt. It is old, out of date, out of style, full of holes. Holes once filled are now threadbare from past patches. Mended and then washed only to unravel again. My clothes are hung outside to dry in the coldest winter. And I am left with nothing to wear.



*January 14, 2013