The third of December is tomorrow,
And all I can think about is you, her, and where my sweater could’ve possibly vanished to.

I think of you because I liked what we had going on,
I liked the jokes, our conversations, the glances, and the implications.
I liked your beautiful brown orbs that belonged behind frames you refused to showcase them in, and the curls that hid them like curtains.

I think of her because that should be me.
What was between us should’ve landed me in her place,
And I think of my sweater.
My heather sweater that I’ve worn every third of December since 2020, because it’s cold out, and it’s sweater weather.

Heather has your sweater when I should be its “owner,”
Heather holds your heart when it should be in my hands,
And Heather is the mesmerizing sight that soothes your sore eyes,
While I stand to the side, and watch her pull the smile from you that I like to see.

Why would you ever implicate the thought of you and me?
Lead me to believe that you would pick me when Heather was the choice from the very beginning?

Now she has you, and the sweater that would always and forever be given to Heather,
It may be polyester, but ****, I wish I was Heather.