This jacket I remember it

This jacket, I remember it

when the nights still had a chill

that wasn't in my bones.

Now, the fabric pulls across my back

like a tight bandage,

the buttonhole stretched, fraying.

It won't close. Not even a little.

But I fold it back in the drawer

with the ghost of cigarettes and cheap perfume.

It smells faintly of a time

when I thought I knew everything,

and maybe, somehow,

it fit.