The purple sweater hangs in the closet, In the back where painful memories hide. Its fabric still soft, Her scent still barely there. But its sleeves remain empty, Without hope of animation. An artifact of a time gone by
If you hold your breath, You can almost hear her laughter. If you squint, You can almost see her smile. But only for a second
You slip it over your shoulders And breathe through the sharp pain in your chest It feels like breaking, But it feels like healing too. It always hurts, But so do most things worth remembering.