I try you on in the store
the way I would try on
an expensive leather coat or
a pair of high heeled boots,
mulling over the decision
in front of a mirror
and the sales lady,
wondering if it actually
might be a good fit.
In the end, I pay for you
and bring you home
in a neat little package,
but store you away
until I can make a more
permanent decision.
I wait it out,
trying you on again
in front of other mirrors,
in front of girlfriends,
in front of my mother,
never removing those tags
or wearing you out.
In the end,
it was inevitable;
I wrap you back up
and return you—
right back to the store
I picked you up at.
It was never meant to be.
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