Olive-green, gray and tattered cuffs
Seams coming loose, barely a rag.
You still wear it even in public
As though it were finest silk.

You say you’ll never throw it away
Because I wore it once
In that long winter month apart from you
And returned it smelling of my hair.

I remember lying in bed
Arms cradling it to my face
Dreaming of nuzzling my nose to
The curve of your neck and shoulder.

Our love likewise, for lack of care
Is full of holes, threadbare.
It scratches, gives no warmth to me
But you’re completely unaware.

I’m throwing it away.