I should wear the silk shirt or the crisp white cotton

I should wear the silk shirt or the crisp, white cotton,

something that says I haven't been falling apart.

But the good clothes feel like a lie I’ve forgotten,

so I reach for the wool that knows the beat of my heart.

There are knots on the cuffs where the thread has bunched up,

little hard berries of a winter spent inside.

I’ve held them like rosaries over a cup

of lukewarm coffee I was using to hide.

At the elbows, the knit is becoming a ghost,

stretched so thin that the lamplight shines through.

It’s the version of me that I value the most,

held together by friction and a little bit of you.