Maroon Like Memory

The jacket hangs there,

a ghost in the back of the closet—

frayed like the edges of a dream

fading just past the reach.

A dark blotch stains the sleeve,

maybe coffee, maybe something darker,

I can’t tell anymore—

it’s folded into the afternoon light

like a bruise that never healed.

I run fingers over the fabric,

smell the dampness clinging

to years that don’t want to pass.

This color—once sharp, alive—

now dulled, settling into rust.

A forgotten weight pressing

against the peeling wood of the chair,

like the slow drip of rain

that falls through cracks

no one remembers closing.