Laura Campbell

Another fight
tears our marriage
like my tattered shirt.
Thin and smooth as paper,
my shirt is old
and faded too,
in chambray blue.
The collar's folded edge
has long been frayed
with years of rubbing gainst.
Oh, how fragile,
how quick to split apart,
this old blue cotton
that wore for thirty years.
And if I mend it will it last
a little longer still?
But is there any point in saving
what should now be tossed?
Except I feel its comfort,
and I know its weight.
I understand the easy way
it falls around my waist,
never clinging,
never binding,
flowing gently next to my skin
with a softness
that surrounds me.
Yet, sometimes I see
what's long been true.
I don't look my best
in faded blue.