Tattered threads weave a story of lovers who used to be,

And ugly recreation of a beautiful tapestry.

Lingering in the fabric, echoes of what once was,

Treasured hues of paint streaked across a cracked marble vase.

My brain, it’s duly forsaken you,

While my sutured heart aches with the pain of two.

Sewing needles weave my shattered heart back together,

The very same threads that wove this very sweater.

It always seems too hot, too cold, too itchy, too smooth,

A soft, gentle melody that can no longer soothe.

Sometimes I wonder, if you cry,

While staring up at this same blue sky.

Sometimes, I wonder, if you think of this sweater,

Wishing things could’ve been a little better.

Do you think, one day, it’ll ever be okay?

Do you think, in the end, we never were immune to romance’s inevitable decay?

The answer, she eludes me, yet I do know one thing,

The stifling choke of your sweater is not one I’ll soon be missing.