Memories are thread into some of my clothes.
Some moments are wove into the fabric.
Just the shirt on my back or the socks on my toes
can have me wearing years of baggage.
Like when my clothes would get laced with your perfume
but I would neglect to wash them.
So I could smell them alone in my room
but the scents would fade after then.
Or how I could ever wear that blue vest again
without thoughts in the back of my mind,
of how it matched your blue gown back when
all we thought we had was time.
But none of that matters staring out a jet window
into a cloudless sky with my thoughts clear.
Only regrets I gave you my sweatshirts years ago.
I could use them now, this flight is cold and you aren’t here.