Sweater Weather
It is cuffing season and I can smell the laundered cotton around the corner. Big sleeves that will hold your hand, warmth forming from the tops of your shoulders and kissed into each curve sitting within this manufactured hug, a way is made to stitch up this heart; becoming a build-a-bear has apparently been a lifelong undiscovered dream of mine.
In color theory, there is a scientific discovery behind each shade of ROYGBIV. My personal hug from above is kept steady and calm underneath my favorite oversized beige sweater. I have loved my sweater for almost 6 years now, and we’ve been serious about keeping each other warm every Winter ever since I laid my eyes on this sewn swan at Goodwill. It is hard to think about any other way it would have been used if I had never met it. I’m obsessive, and I know I am never going to give it to someone else; well, maybe if they needed something to cry into and still feel warm at the same time. Sharing is caring and sweater weather is one mighty battle for those who haven’t got one to crawl into and hibernate until after February 14th.
I know how difficult it can be to sleep alone after you have been trained by the likes of a love after-hours. Seeing the light emit from each expel of a stare, routine of random talk, and molding into a bed which soon feels as big as the ocean, floating and lulling our figures, ending and becoming at the same time. It is hard to imagine anything less than being loved and harder to figure out how to redistribute the weight that now lays heavy on an open space. Where a lit candle feels like the best method to capturing the solemn glow of the night, the stars envy us down here where we can coincide, together as bonds between our hearts shine (bright!). My sweater is what I melt into now, my life vest keeping me afloat as the sheets have turned terribly twisted; it’s unfortunate that the sea sickness always hits me once I am in too deep.
What takes up space in your life will only lead you down the road of discovery. As it has grown narrower, as has my ability to keep up with bullshit. I am alone sometimes, but never am I lonely; my atoms are constantly swirling and whirling at a rate which keeps me warm and alive with the prospect of hope and hard work. As a break entails taking time, replacing what once was with what is has been an achievement in the realm of gratitude. Abandonment is combatted with this warmth, numbing the coldness of feeling now buried dead, impossible to cling to as a safety life vest. Even the cold wind roams around looking for an invite inside, to melt into the security of taking time to settle and be someone else’s hope; my cheeks long for their icy rosiness.
My sweater was first sewn and then created, just like any of us experiencing the cutting and continuing of our certain traits, hobbies, and relationships. We are gentle in our presence as we walk from store to store, selling ourselves as cleanly as possible; I was told my stains would come out with therapeutic remedy and to let the excess water these wounds leak dry in the sunlight. Still, I am whole; worn but whole. My fabric has found its match in my beige hug, but I wonder who will wear me again and love the way I make them feel. Will my itch for true love be scratched?
To be loved is to be changed:
