What's Left

I found it in the back,

pale blue, worn thin,

and I held it like a fact,

a proof of when

my roommate was still here,

before the apartment emptied,

before the sound became clear—

just me, dismantled,

wearing the same shirt

day after day,

until the neckline hurt,

until the fabric gave way,

pills forming like tiny scars,

the weave so thin

I could see through to stars,

to light, to what's within.

The cotton's disappearing now.

I don't know how

to let it go,

how to tell myself I'm not the same shape,

not the same person, though

I keep reaching for this drape

of blue, this soft collapse

of fabric, this only thing

that still fits, that still maps

onto who I was, that still rings

true, even as it falls apart.