The Blue Coat

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Ann Danilina / Unsplash

Youโ€™re moving things out of your closet when you stumble upon my blue coat, the trusty fashion piece I had bought to protect me during Florentine winters. The one you told me to wash repeatedly because I would stain it every other day with coffee. You stop and hold it up in front of the bedroom window, admiring its silhouette, picturing exactly how it looked when it was draped on me. You smile as you think about the times we spent with each other in the city, living out the last bit of our youth.

You start searching the pockets for old memories, but to your dismay I didnโ€™t leave any. The only trace of me is in the lingering scent of that fresh botanical perfume from that store across Ponte Vecchio. I know this is a pivotal moment for you; you are officially confronting the skeletons in your closet. I, unfortunately, have become one of them. You close your eyes and remember the texture of my curls and how soft they felt between your fingers. My eyes and the way they pierced through yours. The way you would trace your hands up and down my thighs. The rhythm of my fingers as they massaged your beard. This is history now, but you enjoy basking in the nostalgia.

You sit down on the bed to catch your breath. You start to wonder when I became such a sad memory for you. You think about what would have happened if we would have met when you were ready. You slide your hand down the fabric and start folding up the blue coat and throw it into one of the boxes. This is the only piece you have left of me, the only part you will ever have. I told you I was the one that got away before I departed.

For the rest of your life, you will wonder if you shouldโ€™ve taken the train instead of intentionally missing it. TC mark

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