黑色毛衣

It hangs silent as a museum night watchman in tweed, draped over a dim, wooden valet. Its fine nap is a velvety halo, born from the caress of countless longing palms; within the gaps of its weave, live unfinished sentences and the scent of air after rain.

This is no garment newborn. It knows the curve of an embrace, remembers the gentle friction of sleeves side by side. Its black is not an announcement of ink, but resembles the paper of an old letter steeped in nightfall—a reticent silence that absorbs all light. Occasionally, a strand or two of delicate white down (perhaps from a shirt, perhaps a white dragonfly from memory) clings to it, a tender fugitive in a dark galaxy.