The sweater seems insignificant now;
it’s dark blue, soft cotton, a slight v-neck.
Almost two years ago, however,
it carried you with it.
It hangs in my closet like the a snake skin that’s been shed,
and now all it smells like is a sweater.
Once in a while though, it will smell like two summers ago,
like the top of your roof at night
like your Star Wars sheets,
like your brother’s Subaru and like cigarettes.
Like your dogs, like your hair,
like your kitchen and like our kisses.
It seems it was a different sweater back then, but
it’s been just a sweater all along.
