Mustard Memory

Out of a box, among old sweaters,

a color I hated, a yellow so deep.

A scratchy wool, a thing that yet lingers,

a secret I still somehow keep.

It was yours, this scarf, I remember the day.

You left it behind, a forgotten thing.

I should have thrown it, or given it away,

but I kept it, that sour yellow string.

I held it to my face, just a quick breath,

a scent of dust and something not mine.

A ghost of your warmth, defying all death,

a comfort I fought, a crooked design.

And now it’s just here, a faded regret,

a color I hate, but can't quite forget.