this hoodie has a history,
i wanted to tell him
as i dropped it in
his waiting palms
stolen from my sister
on the morning of the
Thanksgiving run,
some old boyfriend’s, but suddenly,
she must’ve known, mine
green stain from the
night my friends and i
tried painting my room,
my first lover and i
whispering i love you
at bedtime, smiling
in secret
grad school uniform,
late-night drinks and
later-night writing,
those wild, short months,
one last adolescence
given, for months, to somebody
who never intended to
stay, who slipped out of
my life like he owed
no explanation, but
who took the time to
fold it, hide it gently
on the closet floor
before he left,
found and held close
that fragile morning
for once, i
held onto my histories,
let a hoodie be, for the moment,
a hoodie, warm against
the artificial air