I can't think of you as a person. It hurts too much.
Instead, I think of you as my favourite shirt.
You are beautiful, you are soft,
you are priceless in cost.
With you I have spent so many moments,
disasters and adventures,
We've been bruised and scraped,
abused and stained,
but then I put you in the wash
and everything is good as new.
You fit me perfectly.
When I'm with you, I feel pretty,
I feel happy,
I feel like nothing could ever be too impossible
you are my super hero cape
you are my wings
you are my mask.
I sleep with you at night and you remind me of home.
You keep me warm when I'm alone.
And I loved you and love you and never want to let you go,
but in the years, you are forming holes
I can no longer stitch.
Your fabric is frayed and thread bare,
not even a magician could fix
I'm growing out of you
you don't fit me like you used to
and when I wear you
I don't get complimenting glares
but pity stares
and I know the truth
there is nothing there.
So I put you through the wash one last time,
and hang you on my line to dry,
and I fold you up and place you in a box,
and then pretend I forgot
all you were
all those sweet memories
all those photos with you and me
I pretend none of it exists.
And you sit and collect dust,
and I walk around naked and lost
until I find a new shirt
that looks even better than before
and all is good, ever more.
But the truth is, even beneath my beautiful new garment
I still long to fit you again.