Light fell around you, dusty and cold, when you snuck into my basement and stole a shirt from the dryer, one that you gave me three years back from some place on Main. Your head poking through, you saw me catch you. With eyes on my feet, you promised me you hadn't changed. Black stripes through green hung like rings on the sleeves on the shoulders you shrugged indifferently. Your hand on my back, head on my sleeve, I could already tell you had changed. On your way up the stairs, you crouched down to see me with both hands up on my head. You smiled in a way that I'd never seen. You smiled in a way I could never trust, but you never could wear my trust as well as you wore that shirt. You knew it too. Just as you left, I gathered some words, chased them after you, but they just leaked through my fingers and spilled over the floor. Well you may be gone, but I'll know you still, as long as you'll be the one in my old black and green.