You gave me your jeans to patch up some holes,
but they were too worn; I couldn't fix them.
Even the patch you gave me fell apart;
you had worn them to threads, you loved them so.
I kept a tiny patch of the denim;
it smelled of you and it'd touched your skin.
I never told you, but I wore the jeans.
They were here, they filled in in your absence.
If only I could patch them up like new;
in your grace, you would let me stay in you.
-
Author:
rebmasters (
Offline) - Published: April 9th, 2021 03:24
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 26
- Users favorite of this poem: A Boy With Roses
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Comments3
such poignantly relatable words of yearning
insightfully inked with unflinching humility,
a great read
Ah thank you friend
Go on - the jeans I observe (not wear) have been holed and worn through long before they reach their first owner...
All that aside, the underlying sentiment is clear and it is easy to empathise with the attachment you have to an otherwise insignificant piece of material.
Very emotive write, there are strange things that we have in life that can bring us such loving memories.
Andy
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