Distressed Jeans in November
BY OLIVIA PISCITELLI
The air pokes its frozen little fingers
Into the hole in the knee of my pants.
The urgent, childlike tickle lingers
And crawls up my leg like millions of ants.
Your warm hand moves to cover the tear,
And the chill pulls its raw hand away.
You smile wide and lean back in your chair
As the snow flurries dance a sad ballet.
When will the feeling decay or fade?
When will the colors run off the page?
Flake off, or change their shade?
When will I see that I’m trapped in a cage?
Soon enough you’ll take your hand back
And my place in your heart will fade to black.