Transfixed
I stare
My loquacious nature
Gone asunder
I am, for once,
At a loss
In-able to comprehend
Or to act
Completely flustered
By a Sweater
Tentatively
I reach
A single finger
Towards it
It feels rough
Like soft sandpaper
Unsure of intent
I hold it up
Unsteady
Pulling it
Up over my head
Smoothing the sweater
Down against my arms
The subtle smell
Of its owner
Wafts over me
Fitting around me
Like cloth
Feeling its texture
Smelling its scent
I wonder
If I am intended
To wear said garment
It has your presence
Within its wool
You see it as
Meer fabric
Lent only for warmth
To me
This phantom remberance
Given
Indefinitely
With promises
To meet again
Soon
In order
To return
Yet each thread
Of your sweater
Are not bits of wool
Instead,
A haunting,
So cryptic
That though it warms
And feels
Against my skin
I still have no
Words of certainty
To define
Such a gesture
As this sweater
So often I wear it
In the time
It has been rented to me
That the joke has been made
That the wool
Will fuse
With my flesh
I am not sure
If I would mind
The constant presence
Of your cloth
And smell
And,
If I dare to dream it,
Your intent
In this piece
Of warm clothing
In this simple sweater
I find so much
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