Static

The lid of the chest has a heavy, dark groan,

releasing a scent of a world I had known.

I pull out the cardigan, heavy and blue,

and catch a quick ghost of the spray that was you.

It’s chemical, floral, and stuck in the knit,

a lingering cloud where the memories sit.

The wool pulls my hair with a crackle and snap,

like a small, blue-white spark in a physical trap.

It stings at my neck when the fabric moves past,

a shock from a shadow not built to last.