Leftover Hoodie in July

Found your hoodie in July. Back of my closet. The sleeves still

cuffed the way you left them. Smells like cheap coffee and rain. I should toss

it in a box, or the wash, or the fire. Instead,

I try it on and laugh alone. Why's your leftover hoodie in July

still heavier than winter on my spine? Sun's out, but I

pull the hood up high. Walking through the heat like it's goodbye.

Leftover hoodie in July. We were freezing in the aisles. Late-night market.

Broken fridge, you wrapped me up. Said, "Keep it,"