Mementos

I told myself it was an accident.

That it slipped into my pocket

with the rest of the night.

Fabric is light.

Memory isn’t.

It’s small.

Smaller than it felt

when it was still warm.

I don’t take things.

That’s not who I am.

But I kept this.

Deliberate.

Two fingers. Calm.

Folded quickly.

Held tight.

Like I could reduce it

to something harmless.

It lives at the back of a drawer now

beneath old postcard cards, regrets

and a watch I don’t wear anymore.

I pretend I forget it’s there.

But sometimes I open the drawer

for something else

and let my hand hover.

Not quite touching.

Just near enough

to feel the heat of it

through wood and cotton

and shame.

It still smells faintly of skin.

Or maybe that’s me projecting.

Memory is good at that.

It fills in what it wants. What my bones need.

I should have given it back.

Should have laughed

and tossed it across the room

like a decent lover.

Instead,

I slipped it into my pocket

when you weren’t looking.

Like proof. Like evidence.

Like something that said:

this happened… and I can’t let go yet.

There’s a thread loose on one side.

I notice that every time.

I’ve never pulled it.

I don’t want it to unravel.

It isn’t the fabric I keep.

It’s the moment before it came off.

The look in your eyes.

The breath you didn’t steady.

I don’t take things.

But I kept this.

And sometimes,

late,

when the room is quiet

and I am less good than I pretend to be,

I unfold it

slowly