To the boy who forgot his Jean jacket in my room By Annyka Dela Cruz

To the boy who forgot his jean jacket in my room,

Here lies the only concrete evidence that you were once here before. Sometimes, I find myself holding that piece of clothing so gently as if reckless movements may rip the memories of you away. Often times, I want it gone along with the consciousness of being constantly broken.

How could one apparel cause so much hurt? How could this ocean-colored denim remind me of all the memories in one mammoth wave? Did you do it on purpose? Did you deliberately leave your jacket to make sure I never get to build a bridge over this river of ruined aching and never move on?

What used to be a shelter of roughly patched linen now looks like the only source of anguished tears. Hands shaking, I hold the jacket closely. Maybe if I hold it longer, maybe if I hold it to a greater extent like how I should have been with you — then maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to hold and love you thereafter, for the second time.