I put on your shirt today for the first time in more than a month. The old grey one you let me keep. The old grey one you forgot to take with you when decided to leave. With thread-bare holes under the arms. It falls past my fingertips, and my bum. Because it's you. Your size. Your personality. It's just you. I threw out your toothbrush on night 11. But the shirt gets to stay. And I left it hanging on my closet doorknob for the last 31 days. But yesterday, I washed it. I cleaned the you right out of it's thread. And then I pulled it over my messy morning bedhead and wrapped my arms around myself. Sat on my bed. And decided it was time to let you go. So I walked to the kitchen and plucked a sage leaf from the ceramic bowl on our countertop. Turned it to fire. And danced in a circle- coating the old grey shirt in sweet smoke. It is not yours any longer. And neither am I. I'm letting you go, but god damnit this shirt looks too good on me to not be kept.
written on 5/15/17
//: on letting go
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