Friction

The air turned sharp while I was still asleep.

I dug through the plastic bin beneath the bed

to find the navy wool I meant to keep

for the sake of the things we never quite said.

It’s covered in pills, tiny knots of grit

from the night I slept on the driveway stones.

I take a cheap razor to the sleeve of it,

scraping the fuzz away from my brittle bones.

I could buy a new one, something clean and flat,

without the memory of the gravel in the weave.

But there’s a comfort in a ruin such as that—

a mess you’re simply not allowed to leave.