Raised, trying to stay clean,
sweatshirts tumble and jumble
slide and slump.
Trying to lose their lost.
Stained and frayed,
forgotten warmth,
taking up space and dust,
day after day.
Til searching fingers hunt.
Trying to find familiar.
His name written down, long ago, by loving hands.
Mac Browne “You are mine.”
Taking it back, putting it on,
that old smell and soft, remembered.
“I know you.”
No longer forgotten or lost.
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