We played house
It feels unreal to see you go
into the grey and yellow morning sky,
through the window that you cleaned
not a week ago,
now I see you through stripes.
I tried to repair your jacket,
in whimsical stitches, sitting on the couch,
while you did the outside of the house.
Your window cleaning and my sewing,
imperfect, but good
for at least a lasting memory
of us keeping house.
Through the blurred glass of the living,
I watch you touch the jacket’s scar,
and you turn around, in awe,
for one last moment.
I think I might have left the needle
in the fabric.