These boxers are old and frayed

The original brightness washed away.

They’ve been with me for so long

I can’t remember when they were new.

I wear them often, too often some would say.

They’re so old I should replace them,

But I just can’t say goodbye.
 
 

The fly used to button.

I have never learned to sew.

I wore these boxers to the nights

We gathered at the bars,

Pretending we had somewhere else to be.

I’ve often used them to wipe away

All the nights of uselessly spent love.
 
 

I’ve used them to dust my shelves

And all the books I‘ve never read.

Used them to wipe steam from the mirror,

So I could see to shave.

These boxers were the ones I wore

That night you found the hole.

You used it to finger me

Till I begged you for more.
 
 

You put them on once by mistake

And rushed off to work unaware.

You called me after your bathroom break.

We talked and laughed 

And ended with a sigh that was our love.

That night, you wore them again,

And I loved you in them as you loved me.
 
 

These boxers sat on the bedroom floor

When you last walked out my door.

I didn’t touch them for a week.

The laundry piled up as I cried.

I washed them eventually 

And loved them more for their consistency.
 
 

These boxers are a piece of me,

A relic of personal history.

When I wear them now, I try to recall

The day they were new, 

And the day they turned old.

They’re so worn I should replace them

But I just can’t say goodbye. 

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