a poem about routine, lost love and the way we entwine ourselves into the people who make a home in our hearts.
I don’t like hoodies
The hood catches my hair
Tangling the long strands into knots
I then spend hours brushing
Till I can pass my fingers through again.
I don’t like hoodies.
But I took yours.
It’s green and lives rolled neatly
Arms folded at the bottom of my wardrobe
It’s been washed so many times
I can no longer smell your cigarettes
Or the scent of your shampoo on the sleeves.
‘You’re perfect’ you whisper
The metro passes by
I laugh incredulously
‘You are’
Your eyes are laughing back
Hands in your green pockets
They reach out to hold my face
My cheek.
It was the last time I ever took you home.
Your hoodie hanging
I don’t like hoodies.
But I liked you.
I put it on.
Once again you’re holding me.
I hear your voice
Braid your hair
To stop it from tangling.
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