The Crushed Pile

My fingers snagged, on purpose, slow,

on crimson nap, where light wouldn't go

quite fully in, just caught and died,

a history pressed deep inside.

This faded jacket, thick and deep,

a faded secret it must keep.

It was the same, that heavy crush,

a hush of fabric, then a rush

of warm air, thick with scent of smoke,

a low-lit room, the words I spoke.

The way it felt against my cheek,

a story that the fibers speak.

A worn-out richness, a certain weight,

that held a promise, then sealed a fate.

The velvet holds the absent light,

a ghost of luxury, soft and tight.

It's just a jacket, hanging there,

but for a moment, I could care.