Secondhand

To my secondhand love interest, whom, faded colors & all, still remains as bright as the day he threw you away the first time. Your character is built of lint, easily picked at & undesirable, yet typically remains unnoticed by others. You were slighted used when he obtained you, &, by the time I received you, you’d grown worn & wrinkled. You started to accumulate stains over your breast pocket & your sleeves were a little looser. Sloppy people always leave an impression on what they used, but I took you home & cleaned you up. Or rather, I made an attempt at doing so. I treated you with my hands. My care. My self interest. And I made you just like new. Mark Twain said “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.” Well, I did my share of patchwork to make you mine. And when I had you, hid it well away from society. But it was of no avail & now I lay bare, exposed only to illuminated pixels & the ignorance of the guessing. And I assume you lay elsewhere, in tatters. Unaware of how desperately I wish I was color safe bleach & that I could renew your glory. But you’re still marred. Useless & torn. But, maybe I merely lost you only for a while. Maybe someone simply borrowed you & failed to inform me. Maybe you were so stained that the dryer took pity on you & teleported you to the land of missing socks, so that men would no longer ruin you. But enough with all these maybe. No matter where you are. No matter who’s inside of you. For a moment, you were the fabric of my life.