Against the Grain

The closet smells of cedar and the cold.

I touch the sleeve of something ten years old.

My thumb goes left and leaves a darkened trail,

a bruised and muddy mark from a dirty nail.

You wore this when you stood beside the car

and told me that the distance was too far.

The tan hide turns to shadow where I press,

a physical weight in the middle of the mess.

I smooth the nap but cannot hide the stain,

the way the skin looks wrong against the grain.