Borrowed

Three weeks and I'm still wearing it.

The wool still holds her warmth,

the pockets lined with receipts

and a pen that doesn't work,

the collar that smells like

someone else's life.

She left it here on purpose,

I think.

The way she didn't ask for it back,

the way she smiled when she left,

like she knew I'd try it on

the second she was gone.

I should give it back.

But I'm not ready

to smell like myself again,

to be the version of me

that lives in my own clothes.

In her coat I'm someone

who keeps things together,

someone worth fitting better.

The day she asks for it

is the day I stop being

someone else.