She got a new job in a new neighborhood
with new apartment neighbors
that looked at her strangely when she
wore the same pair of sweatpants every day
for 43 days straight,
new neighbors that saw her
do laundry every Thursday around 7:12 p.m.
of women's whites and darks
but yet continued to wear baggy clothes that sagged
and dragged
and new neighbors that questioned whether she was sane
when they saw her practically stripping
with every stairway step
leading to her apartment
leaving a trail of clothes that were foreign to her
and new neighbors that were greeted every day before she tried to sink back into her old life,
drowning herself in his packed-up wardrobe, ready for donation,
to get into his sweatpants for the 44th day,
into the same pair she used to wash for him
every week around 7:12 p.m.,
the pair he used to lounge in everyday after work after greeting her,
the pair he swore
were made for her,
the pair she will want to live her whole life in,  
because she knows there will come a Thursday when the scent of him
will be as foreign as the feeling of wearing jeans.