Deployed

It tells a story,

Your old forest-green sweatshirt.

It tells a story about the birth mark on your fingertip,

About your scarred elbows,

And about the summer after our graduation.

Something in its' smell of musty cupboards, 

Masked with Springtime Fresh Downy dryer sheets,

Reminds me of your red-tinged hair

On the bathroom floor when I trimmed it for boot camp.

I pull the sweatshirt over my my head,

The frayed sleeve ends covering my hands completely.

This sweatshirt does not fit me like it did you,

The only story it tells of me 

Is when I left it in the dryer and the logo faded.

But it tells of your freckled smile,

And it reminds me of your big, strong hands 

And the small bits of gold in your eyes.

No, this sweater does not belong to me,

So come home.