Two tone cotton, overpriced, pin pricked fingertips and all.

I’ve never been in love
But once I bought this Mustard Sweater,
from an overpriced vintage store
On Brunswick Street.
And as soon as I saw it, I knew it was made for me
So I held it up in the glorious mustard sunshine
That was peering into the overpriced vintage store
On Brunswick Street.

I beheld her.
I was Rafiki and my Mustard Sweater a baby Simba
And I’m pretty sure somewhere in the distance
the animals sung praises.
And the light grew brighter still, and started to creep through a hundred tiny holes…
Where moths had nibbled away at the yarn
Of the sweater I’d fallen for
in the overpriced vintage store.
So I shelved her.
And ran.
Because she was overpriced, and holey.

I tried to, but I couldn’t shake the memory of her soft,
sixty-eight per cent angora touch,
Even after I had gone home and put on other sweaters that didn’t have any holes at all,
and were still very nice.
I couldn’t wash the memory of that stupid overpriced, holey Mustard Sweater out of my hair.
So the next morning
Before work I got up two hours early, and trammed in the cold for miles
just so I could go to that store
And buy it.
I even had to criss-cross the road to get money out of the cash machine because that stupid overpriced store’s stupid eftpos machine was stupid, and broken, and I knew I was going to have to buy a needle and two different colours of cotton just to fix
that stupid, overpriced,

holey,

beautiful

sweater.

And later in the half light of a dusty second story attic
Surrounded by pre packaged clothes that were still all very nice,
but none which I could recall to you now
I mended and tended to my beautiful sweater.
Stitching criss cross bandages over her broken Mustard Body
Where the moths had eaten her,
and left her for dead in some forgotten closet
Purchasing a new life for her with the blood that spilled from my needle pricked fintertips
Because I wasn’t spending any more money,
on a thimble
And when I was done she held me tight,
with that soft, sixty-eight per cent angora touch
And though I knew she’d seen a Somme or two
I wore her like a medal.
I showed her off like she was flawless.
Because she was.
Two tone cotton, overpriced,
pinpricked fingertips and all.
So I suppose I do know a little, about what love is like.

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