The Weight of It

I wore it today.

Someone asked whose coat, and I say

your name out loud.

The word leaves me uncowed—

I've said it before. The sleeves

are too long. The hem that cleaves

to the ground. It's made

for someone else. I'm afraid

of how it shows: I'm borrowed,

I'm held by what's borrowed,

by warmth that doesn't fit right.

In the pocket, a receipt from that night.

Your handwriting. A date.

I don't open it. Can't face

what I'm avoiding.

The coat is heavy. Employing

its weight like penance.

Everyone can see: I'm tense,

wearing someone else's warmth

into a world that sees the berth

between the jacket and my frame.

The shoulders hang wrong. I'm not to blame

for the fit, but I wear it anyway.

Today I could have lied, could say

it was mine, found, borrowed anywhere

but your closet. But instead I swear

your name aloud.

Made it visible. The crowd

around me knows: I'm still

carrying this piece of you. Still

wearing your absence like a choice.

The receipt stays. I rejoice

in small ways at the weight of it.

The hem that drags. I submit

to keeping this longer,

this borrowed warmth growing stronger

with each day I don't give it back.