I love it when she wears my old jeans worn and ripped and hanging loose on her hips and I like to think that at some point during the day when she has left the house to pick up groceries or to excavate some new treasure from a thrift shop or when she stops under the leafless arms of the forest spotting an owl or a snake or a blue jay or when she seeks a stir of fresh air and a lunch time walk under the shade of her sun hat she’ll stop and slowly draw her finger and thumb down some loose threads or feel a sudden cool wisp of breeze on a bare knee circled by a frayed opening and look down at those jeans and think of me.
poem: I love it when she wears my old jeans
poem: I love it when she wears my old jeans
poem: I love it when she wears my old jeans
I love it when she wears my old jeans worn and ripped and hanging loose on her hips and I like to think that at some point during the day when she has left the house to pick up groceries or to excavate some new treasure from a thrift shop or when she stops under the leafless arms of the forest spotting an owl or a snake or a blue jay or when she seeks a stir of fresh air and a lunch time walk under the shade of her sun hat she’ll stop and slowly draw her finger and thumb down some loose threads or feel a sudden cool wisp of breeze on a bare knee circled by a frayed opening and look down at those jeans and think of me.