(no subject)
this is called: unloading your clothes at the goodwill.
I handed your shirts in stacks, the slight warmth of your body still clinging to pilled fleece and fibers. we cleaned your closet out in one fatal blow - ordaining the racks of a thrift store with designer jackets and heels, cracked leather running shoes, your black pants with the strawberry print. it feels like I'm stealing from you, giving your clothes to the poor. creating space between each of dad's polos. an entire bar devoted to hangers. I look for you in your bedroom behind the door, speak to the wire mouths of empty hangers, the carpeted floor where your bare feet stood to pick out a shirt every day. they only tell me you don't live here anymore.
I handed your shirts in stacks, the slight warmth of your body still clinging to pilled fleece and fibers. we cleaned your closet out in one fatal blow - ordaining the racks of a thrift store with designer jackets and heels, cracked leather running shoes, your black pants with the strawberry print. it feels like I'm stealing from you, giving your clothes to the poor. creating space between each of dad's polos. an entire bar devoted to hangers. I look for you in your bedroom behind the door, speak to the wire mouths of empty hangers, the carpeted floor where your bare feet stood to pick out a shirt every day. they only tell me you don't live here anymore.