Borrowed

I borrowed the jacket for one night,

wore it three hours, thought I'd be fine,

and when I took it off at home,

I found a stain—small, dark loam—

on the inside of the sleeve.

Suede is honest.

It takes every touch,

every careless moment,

holds it like a record

of who you really are.

Her perfume is still there,

caught in the nap—

something expensive, specific—

and now it's mixed with the smell

of my guilt,

of the thing I didn't see

until after I'd done it.

I haven't called her.

I keep the jacket separate,

on a hanger by itself,

like it's evidence,

like the stain is proof

that I can't be trusted

with borrowed things,

with borrowed softness,

with anything that doesn't belong to me.

The mark won't fade.

Suede remembers.

I'm learning to too.