The Jacket

To you it's just a jacket.
An ordinary bit of leather.
But to me it is so much more.
Because it's his jacket.

I used to look at it
and see his stories in it.
It was black and dangerous.
Those purple knives screamed rebellion.

It's not a new jacket.
He's owned it six years.
I didn't know him at 19.
But that jacket did.

It's battered and lived in.
But it's good, strong leather.
It still keeps him warm.
That jacket holds it's own.

I would walk by that jacket.
And it always caught my eye.
I would touch it shyly, secretly.
Knowing it meant that he was near.

I wanted to touch him
like I touched his jacket.
I wanted to be part of his world
the way that jacket was.

Today when he slips it around me
to keep me warm on a chilly night
It always makes me smile softly.
That jacket is an old friend.