There was a time when I wrote about a coat on a rack - her coat - how nice it was to hang mine along side, how nice it was that our arms were touching - though they weren't.
You know, there's a coat my coat likes to be next to now. That when I collect my coat, or drop it off, my arm brushes past. My hand lingers a bit longer than necessary. To feel the fibres. To smell the scent. When it happens I remember the sensation from before, but her face? Hardly, anymore. I don't think of it at all.
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