The Nap of the Skin

I dragged it out from the back of the rack,

a jacket that smells like a life I once knew.

I ran a thumb down the charcoal and black,

watching the fibers go pale and then blue.

It keeps every mark, a map of the day,

sensitive, soft, and impossibly thin.

It’s a material that won't look away,

recording the pressure of where I have been.

On the tan of the cuff, a dark water spot

has hardened to salt and a permanent ring.

It’s a ledger of spills, of the things I forgot,

and the way that the smallest damp moments can sting.