It was summer
and we were
trying on
each others skins.
You were too small for me,
the tight fit was embarrassing,
so you felt justified
to keep me inside
or cover me up.
I was too large for you;
my creases and folds were
in many ways too much.
You fabricated things to hide
but could never fill my pockets.
Small watches and trinkets
you found in them frustrated you so;
constant reminders
I could not be emptied.
It was a long, hot summer.
I guess I wore you out.
You refused mending.
We agreed to swap our skins again
when gold leaves began to fall-
knowing we’d need more than
each other
to keep out the cold.
Rediscovering my old skin
was like being a newborn,
but you looked uncomfortable
as you pulled yours on.
I had made hasty alterations
and fashioned a bag
from the small of your back
I'd needed more space
for my hands.
You were furious.
tugged hard at my
intermediate stitches
until they were all undone.
I accepted this as fate.
Picked up my pieces
returned them to my folds, my warm places,
and with resigned predestined steps,
walked home.



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