I think of you when it gets cold out because I was happy with your coat. Its fur collar smelled like melting snowflakes permeated in cigarette smoke. When you would come in after having loved the night*, after it made your body its own, you came home to another part of you. The coat tickled my cheek, allowing me a part of that guarded adult life. I would play with the buttons because you were mine and the coat was mine, and the smell, and the dirty snow, and the naked trees, and those frozen bums, they are mine, they are me. The country was so honest then, its meager, underfed belly sinking in further, and me sinking in further into your coat, into the warmth. I don’t know if that coat had deep pockets. I didn’t pay attention because, in that time, I had nothing to carry or hide.

*or hated, because who am I to decipher?


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