Like his old sweater, protecting her from the cold
air, cold stares, words, the world
and all the pain it was sure to hold
for her, in time as she grew older.
Though her skin dried and cracked from the cold
She still wore him round her finger
like a ring-- a promise, to have, to hold.
The world got meaner as she got older.
His sweater grew holes and couldn’t stop the cold
from biting her anymore. The ring got too tight
and her, too free to have, too big to hold.
She had worn him round her little finger
like a string--a reminder through the cold
air, cold hands, an empty promise, an empty world--
that he had been hers, to have, to hold.