I pulled the jacket down from the shelf

I pulled the jacket down from the shelf

and sand came with it—fine, almost dust,

mixed in with the lint that collects

the way time does, without asking.

I couldn't remember the last time I wore this.

Could have been three years. Could have been five.

The sand didn't care about my timeline.

Someone I used to know took me somewhere warm once.

We didn't talk much on the drive back.

Now the jacket smells like closet,

like something waiting for its person to come home.

I'm the person now, but I'm not that person.

The sand is. The sand remembers

exactly where it's been.

I just keep the evidence

in my pocket, letting it gather more lint,

more forgetting.