Worn Patch

At the back of the closet,

under a forgotten scarf,

I found the old blazer.

And on its elbow,

the patch of suede, once soft,

now almost bald in the middle.

My thumb stroked it,

the nap gone, the leather thin,

but still holding the shape

of countless leans,

countless thoughts,

head in hand.

It smelled of old wool and dust,

and a quiet kind of weariness.