The clothes you love are not the newest, the shiny dresses all in vogue.
Your favorite clothes have stood the test of time—they’re worn ragged, they are frayed. They’re no longer here. They get thrown away.

My clothes are mostly old. My shoes are cracked, the soles show through. My backpack has a slowly growing hole. It opened at the corner which bore the brunt of sharp edges—softly, patiently.

My love is wear, a loving, willful atrophy. Even though I don’t remind you every day, I’m there: a presence, a memory, a paternal ghost.

I love you just enough to let you go. Enough to let you move away, to slowly, sweetly lose your mind, and lose your ability to walk, and when you say how nice it would be if I came to visit you before you died, I say of course I will, of course.

I care enough to gloss it over; my distance is a sign of cherishment. I will step back and watch with sorrow as time goes to work on you, frays and wears you out, and makes you soft and smooth and kind.

I will let you be, and soon you will be thrown away.

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