of loose laundry.
Shirts I never wear,
but can't bear to part with.
Layers of others' outerwear,
from men I haven't seen in years.
But still, I fold them.
Just like I'll fold you in with them,
when this covering becomes too worn,
and the holes no longer suit the standards
or my taste.
when it's cold out,
I'll slip you over my sleep skin.
And spend the night wrapped warm
in what's left of us.