There are things left in my closet, things that are not mine, things that I never bought, things I hardly ever saw because when you wore them you wore them beneath other things and my access to them was fleeting, encountering them and casting them aside in happy, febrile fits. They were interstitial things, soft husks that retained your scents, your odors, your sweat and stress, perfumes, traumas, anxieties. Peeling them away was peeling parts of the day from you. They remain in the drawer now, clean. Overwashed and stretched out, bundled in the back of the bureau behind the good socks, the black socks I wear to the office, they sleep. They uncurl when it’s time to do the laundry, the anachronisms alone in a vast plastic box, flattened in unflattering shapes. Orphaned, but not lost, it is their jobless berth. I have no use for them; they do not fit any part of my body. They are not truly clothes anymore. They are just things, things I do not throw away.

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