Bathrobe

The man who forever and never loved me
gave me a bathrobe. It was my first, my last
bathrobe. It lasted my whole life long because
I never used it. Well, rarely. I loved it
too much to use. That was a different kind of
love. That was a love of something beautiful
simply because it was. It was violet,
supple, thick, luscious, soft. It was everything
I ever wanted in a bathrobe. It hangs,
right now, on a hook in my bathroom, stretching
and fading in the morning sun, years after
the man himself has gone to ashes, decades
and decades after he gifted it to me.
It was the first gift he gave me, and the last.