I folded your hoodie neatly
set it in a brown paper bag
addressed to you

it doesn't have
the smell of your cologne
anymore
--it probably smells like dryer sheets
and fresh towels.

The last time it smelled like you
was the beginning of september
the only thing comforting me
when I walked down those
white, unfamiliar halls

I really hope that you don't notice
the absence of those red laces
looped through the neck of it
--the nurses wouldn't allow any strings
(shoelaces, lanyards,                                                      
others of the like)                                                          
because potential nooses
are a hazard to my health
                      (who knew?)                                        

I held so tightly to that hoodie
each night I slept in a plastic cot
                            (four nights. four.)                              
and even after your smell faded
even after its embrace simmered down to something so faint,
it was still my only comfort:
a shining beacon
in the gray fog of my hazy mind

I'm finally returning it
to you
and along with it,
the safety embedded in each stitch

I just really hope you don't realize
the absence of those red laces
looped through the neck of it;
it's not what's missing
that's important
but the way it kept me
from giving in
at my lowest point.