I had a red backpack, one of my dad's oldies, maybe from the 70s. It was rather flimsy and couldn't hold much at all, but when I wore it it felt like an extension of my body. So so comfortable, like home and like camp. But it kept breaking, busting at the seams, constantly repaired with safety pins. One day the zipper pretty much just fell off. The black sweater, too, with the front pockets I wore holes in the sleeves and in the fronts of the pocket, so my thumbs poked through. It's just unsightly now I guess. And it hurts to know people are red backpacks and black sweaters. You love it and it feels as nautral as your skin and your fingers. I have a backpack but this time the backpack has me too. And our bond is so close to breaking, hastily patched together with safety pins and amateur uneven stitches sewn too far apart. And I do like this man, even more so that I know he's three weeks from busting open at the seams. I do like being with people who feel like socks, and flipflops, molding to my feet, but those are just cotton, rubber. And it makes me so so sad to think relationships are just cotton fibers, some more tightly woven than others, but so so easily hacked apart by gleaming blades.
hello!
