A Borrowed Chill

This wool, heavy and dark,

pulled from the closet's deep.

It bears a subtle mark,

secrets the fabric keep.

My uncle's, it still holds the ghost

of pipe smoke, faint and sweet.

A scent I loved the most,

on this worn, woolen sheet.

The leather collar, soft and frayed,

the sleeves that fell too far.

A presence unafraid,

underneath a fading star.

I hang it back, a borrowed dread,

this weight I cannot bear.

The words he never said,

still lingering in the air.