I move from closet to closet, and fit my arms
into shirts too big for me. I silently wiggle into
acid stained jeans. I lie. We’re too good
at wearing other peoples’ clothes, a fact you
told me in late autumn when I asked to borrow your
coat. Oh, how I wish you told me earlier that you
were afraid of the cold, how I would've gave
you the very jacket I had stolen. But you liked
the way my clothes fit, and you liked the way
your hands slipped into my pockets, and you told me
that there was nothing more to life than the fraying
of fabric or the ripping of jeans. And so, when you
left, and you didn't say I love you, I figured it
was because my clothes stopped fitting you.