Still Wearing

I reach into the dark of the closet

and my hand finds it before my eyes do—

the sweater, still on the hook,

still holding the shape

you wore into it.

I don't remember leaving it here.

I don't remember choosing not to throw it away.

But my palm is on the sleeve now,

soft wool,

and the smell is still there—

your detergent, or maybe just

the scent of someone

who isn't me anymore.

I pull it out to the light.

The threads are the color they always were.

Nothing has changed except

you have.

Except I have.

Except this object sits between us

like a question I'm not allowed to answer.

I could fold it, put it in a box,

donateitto the place where other people's ghosts go.

I could hang it back up

and leave it alone for another year.

Instead, I hold it against my chest

and feel how it remembers

the shape of your shoulders better than I do.

How the wool still carries something

I should have let go of

three seasons ago.

I hang it back on the hook.

I close the closet door.

My hands smell like you

for the rest of the day,

and I don't wash them.