What I Had to Give Back

She asked for the jacket back today

and I knew the two months were through.

The jacket I'd borrowed in every way,

the jacket I'd made my own too.

It smelled like her—coffee and perfume,

the smell of someone taking care.

I'd reached for it in my gloom,

not just physically—the other kind of despair.

I'd slept in it. Held it when I fell.

The fabric knew my skin.

She put it on and I could tell

it was hers again, not mine, not in.

I watched her walk down the hallway

and felt small.

I was just someone who got to stay

warm for a while, that was all.

Now I have to remember

what cold tastes like.

What it feels like

to not have something

to reach for

when everything is too much.

She's wearing it now.

It fits her right.

It belongs to her.

It always did.

I was just borrowing

the feeling of being okay.