I'm thinking of something
Red.
It's so soft,
And perfectly aged,
And smells like Old Spice
And your skin.
When I put it on
It hangs perfectly
Right above my knees,
And hides me from the world
A world that scares me
To have to face
Without you.
This piece of fleece,
This silly, stupid, sewn-together fabric,
Now lies folded perfectly
In the dark back corner of my closet.
The Matterhorn
Is now mixed with my
Chanel No. 5,
And the hood
Is covered in those
"Annoying stray hairs"
That you secretly loved.
Hidden behind stacks of sweaters,
It mocks me, waiting to find its rightful place,
But I cannot figure out where that is.
Wearing it
Hurts,
Seeing it
Hurts,
Throwing it away
Would kill me,
But finding a way
To return it
After all this time
Would be worst of all.