You can take back your cloak. It
is too big for me, and I don’t
like the way it smells.

No, it’s not you. Not your
smell. You smell like ash and
returning and sweat that beads
in the heat of a nightmare.
Your cloak smells like
the bottom of a pond, where
the fish sleep among dead,
curled fingers.

It was kind of you to lend
it to me. Your cloak.
It was warm but not too warm;
it felt like you. But it is
too loose around my shoulders, and
in that way it reminds me.
Of you, that is. And thinking back is cold,
far too cold.

You can take back your cloak. It
was never mine, but I suppose I
was never yours, was I?