The Sleeves

The sleeves go past my hands

so I have to fold them up

to find my fingers.

It's the warmest coat I have

and it's too big

in all the places I need it to fit.

The shoulders don't know my shape.

The seams are in the wrong places.

But when I wear it outside

in the cold,

the cold can't find me.

I can feel the person it belonged to

in the way the fabric sits,

in the way it's worn at the edges,

in the way it still smells like

someone else's laundry day.

I wear their life

around my shoulders.

I walk in their coat

through streets they've never been to.

It keeps me warm

in a way that feels like borrowed time.

Like I'm wearing someone's past

into my future.

The sleeves still don't fit.

But I'm wearing it anyway.

I'm walking through the cold

in a coat that was meant

for different arms,

a different body,

a different person

who probably wants their warmth back.