My new sweater wraps me in warmth in the brisk winter air. The soft cotton threads woven stitch by stitch comfort my skin. I feel safe in the arms of my sweater. Its ability to console me resembles that of an infant’s mother. I often feel as if I am that infant child when I stand with you. I scream and cry for attention. However, unlike the mother, you leave me in my crib to weep alone. You walk away from me and my sweater. You always have. My smile acts as a shield to my rampant emotions. A shield that protects you, never me. At night I drop you off in my car. You rush to the house and leave me and my sweater behind. You barely whisper goodnight to me and my sweater. My sweater holds me on nights you choose not to. It cradles my thoughts and buries me in compassion. Its aroma reminds me of the person I made you out to be. As I lie in your scent, I pretend my sweater is you. I bask in its embrace and feel the love I do not receive. I thought you would have recognized me or my sweater. I thought it would make you smile. I thought it would remind you of the memories you made in this sweater. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t even ring a bell. Now we are left thieves at large. Me, guilty of your clothes and you, guilty of my heart.