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.

The End

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