Your coat is still in my closet: A poem
Your coat is still in my closet, and I know it's been years since we've called it quits— It shows its age. The rusted zipper stuck in place, the faded blue nylon, the cotton stuffing spilling out of elbow patches— You've moved on, I have too. But nights when it's coldest and he's working late, I put it on and wrap myself in the memory of a passionate love that burned too quickly. I can smell the cigar smoke on your collar, feel the warmth of your skin in the sleeves. I can feel your lips pressed firmly against mine. They taste like ash. And as I lie in bed, kissing and caressing your essence, allowing thoughts of you to creep back into my crevices, I wonder— Do you still keep the sun-bleached sports bra I left under your pillow? Do you sniff it while she sleeps? Do you imagine taking it off, putting my breasts in your mouth? I ask this as I traces my fingers around my areolas, and my nipples harden under the prick of your tongue.
© 2023 Nortina Simmons