100%

I folded the shirt

and felt the weave,

felt how it holds

and how it grieves

the softness it has shed.

The label said

100% cotton.

I'd never read it before,

never thought to explore

what touched my skin.

All cotton.

All soft.

All so familiar

I'd lost it,

I'd tossed it

into the category

of things that are just there.

I held it up to light.

You could almost see through

the places worn thin,

the fibers giving in

after years of washing,

of my body inside it,

of the material memorizing

the shape of my shoulders.

But still holding.

Still soft.

Still there.

I put it on

and felt it

differently,

felt the weight of it,

the way it settled

against my chest,

the way it had

memorized

me.

How many days in cotton?

How many nights

where I forgot

there was

a barrier

between my skin

and everything else,

because the cotton

was so gentle

I couldn't tell

where it ended

and I began?

I'm wearing it now.

Can feel it.

The softness

I've never thought about,

that I'll probably forget

about again by tomorrow.

But right now,

reading the label,

I'm aware

of how much

of my life

is spent

inside

this one material,

this one soft thing,

this hundred percent

cotton

that touches me

every day

and asks

for nothing

in return.