Flannels

I don’t want the lingering smell of you to inhale.

I don’t want the sleeves to show me the span of your arms.

The cuff of the neck that fit yours well

But lazily caresses mine.

The buttons that too easily clasp

A waist that is not yours.

The coziness of the cotton that

Became so lax after years of wear.

Memories that fit the fabric just right.

Stitches that stretched with each breath you took in and out.

I don’t want the fabric to rub my skin so nostalgically.

I don’t want the length to reach my thighs when it’s known a belt buckle all its life.

I don’t want the seasoned smell to adapt to my own.

I don’t want the collar to readjust itself.

The buttons deserve a bit more work;

They shouldn’t meet so easily.

The material shouldn’t meet another’s skin.

The sleeves shouldn’t have to be rolled along different arms.

The buttons should clasp once more against your silhouette.

The length should meet you who makes it

a perfect fit.

I want your smell to seep through once again.

I want your arms to stretch past that final cusp.

I want to see your face framed by the folded collar.

I shouldn’t be wearing your flannel.

The memory of you burns against my frame.

It sharply reminds me that the cloth will never again cover your skin.

I don’t want your flannels.

I want you back.