By: Vitalia Strait
A pair of brown boots is all I have from you.
Maybe they’re a little bit like the way you were,
A tad scuffed and worn in, but beautiful too.
I wouldn’t know; you wouldn’t let me remember.
I unzip these boots to find your lost spirit,
Though you’re many years cold and a couple years gone.
Half of me wants to shove them in the closet,
But with anxious trembling fingers, I pull them on.
The taut leather hugs my thighs in an encase,
A strange sensation you never wanted to do,
But the small girl you left loves the tight embrace,
So she pretends these boots are a proxy from you.
It wasn’t your choice to have these boots passed down,
But I’m wearing them as if they were your last will.
I’ve been thinking about not being around,
And maybe, in an altered way, I too am ill.
But you fought to live, to keep wearing these boots,
And I suppose I shouldn’t throw their life away.
You didn’t care for me, but I care for you,
So I’ll pick up your fight in these boots, and I’ll stay.