It walks. It use to smell like my dad, but now it smells like an odd mix of who I use to be and my ex. It also smells like snow. It is much older than me. It sees but cannot speak. Its silence is frustrating, but also protective. It never grows tired, or cold. It only grows old. It is faithful (to almost anybody). It used to be a good friend. It is made to last and will live a long time, maybe for the rest of my life, but I will never know of it. It is no longer with me. It is gone. It has abandoned all hope and so have I. It has traveled many places, maybe more than me. It likes all weather, but its favorite is cold, though it can do without the wind. It secretly dreams about being a crocodile. It has a warming effect on your soul.
It tells a story. Its story is complex. Listen closely you may hear it. It speaks of history and the truth, but not in a language that is easily understandable. I never heard it until it was gone, but I also never thought to listen while it was near. Now I hear it every day.
I have come to terms with losing my favorite sweater.
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