My jacket smells like you.
It clings to the fabric like a child’s fingers on a lollipop.
I walked up the cracked sidewalk to your house,
sandwiched between two dull, lifeless ones.
The Robin’s egg blue that streaks across the paneling
draws me straight to your front door.
Guilt rattles my chest,
like the bird prints framed on your wall.
I should visit more,
I say.
I’ll come over more,
I promise.
My jacket smells like you.
The scent curls around me like a stiff blanket.
Your lungs, so prettily yours,
choke with a frigid inhale.
My heart, so anguishedly mine,
beats feebly in my ribcage.
My jacket smells like you.
One and a half cups of detergent won’t wash it away.
My chair wobbles with every hair’s breadth of a movement.
It’s a family heirloom, you say.
You can’t donate it.
Will it be mine in a year?
Hand pressed to my collarbone,
I inhale.
I should visit more.
I’ll come over more.
The cracked sidewalk fissures further
and Robin’s egg slices, not streaks.
I should visit more.
I’ll come over more.
Barren walls, vacant rooms, claustrophobic.
The birds are in a box.
I should visit more, I’ll come over more.
My jacket smells like you.
I grasp at the black sleeves,
Pulling them over my wrists.
Yes, sir, delicate only.
My heart, so anguishedly mine,
beats feebly in my ribcage.
