digitalis

my friend is like a pair of gloves.

we fit together perfectly

as if a tailor had measured, cut, and sewn

for me.

i took her everywhere.

over time, she became stained from the elements to which i had exposed her.

her seams left marks on my skin

which i would trace when we were apart.

the tailor noticed these changes in us

and claimed that

the perfect gloves had not been made to be a part

of the outside world.

i tried to keep her, but

my clenching fist caused her seams to burst

and away went all semblance of perfection.

my friend is a pair of gloves.

we had fit together perfectly

but now,

she unravels into the thread that will make someone else

and I know how to keep my own fingertips warm.