I Miss You, But Not What You Became

Some ghosts wear zippers instead of faces.

There was a time I couldn’t go anywhere without you.
You were comfort on bad days, silence when words felt too sharp. You made cold mornings softer. Loneliness easier to carry. I didn’t question you. You were just there. Always.

We went through everything together—late-night walks, grocery store breakdowns, bus rides where I tried to disappear.
You hugged me when no one else knew how.

I kept you even when you started falling apart.
Even when I knew you were past your prime, unraveling at the edges, losing color in places that used to feel like home.
You stopped fitting, but I made excuses. Called it loyalty. Called it love.

And still, I held on.
Maybe out of memory. Maybe out of guilt.
Or maybe because I was afraid of what letting go might say about me.

But the truth is—
I don’t miss you now.

Not really.
Not who you’ve become.

You're stretched out. Sagging. Smell like an old version of me I’d rather forget.
You don't hold me the same.

I miss who you were when I needed you.

But you’re just a hoodie now.
A tired piece of cloth pretending to be something sacred.

And I'm not cold anymore.

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