What the Fabric Kept

I put it on like it might fit differently now,

like the years had maybe stretched me,

like my body was someone else's body.

But no.

The elbows know exactly where to go.

The cuffs remember the shape of my wrists.

The pile is worn thin in the places

where I've worn through it,

the valleys between the ribs

smoothed by my arms moving

the same way a thousand times,

folding the same way,

bending the same way.

It's a map of my habits,

this jacket,

a record of every repeated motion,

every arm across a bar,

every hand in a pocket,

every small gesture I've made

that wore the fabric down to shine.

I can see the original nap

in the places I never moved,

the places that stayed raised,

that stayed untouched,

that stayed perfect because I never needed them,

never used them,

never made them mine.

But the elbows are bare now.

The cuffs are thin as skin.

And my body remembers fitting into this,

remembers moving through the world

in this particular shape,

remembers becoming small enough

to wear a thing down to nothing

just by living inside it.

I take it off.

I don't know if I can wear it anymore.

I don't know if I'm the same size.