She bought me a shirt with one of my favorite bands on it,

she said, “It’s a late Christmas present, early birthday present, whatever you want to call it.”

She cut two holes in it and put worn and washed out blue jean patches over them,

because she knows I like the torn and tattered look.

She took a few more milligrams of the anxiety medicine than she was prescribed,

and passed out on our blue velvet couch teleported directly from the 70’s to the thrift store to our subsidized apartment.

Her head was especially heavy on my chest that night;

her cheek resting against the patch,

that rested against a brilliant Goodwill find,

that rested against someone who will love her profoundly.

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Filed under Personal, Poetry

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