I remember pockets. The way they held things casually sacred, house keys, folded receipts, a smooth stone picked up on an afternoon walk. I was part of jeans once, moving through ordinary days with the quiet loyalty that denim knows so well. Worn to coffee meetings and grocery runs. Soft from washing. Faded in all the right places. Then one day, I was folded away.
I remember pockets. The way they held things casually sacred, house keys, folded receipts, a smooth stone picked up on an afternoon walk. I was part of jeans once, moving through ordinary days with the quiet loyalty that denim knows so well. Worn to coffee meetings and grocery runs. Soft from washing. Faded in all the right places. Then one day, I was folded away.
I was built for endurance once. Dark denim that moved through workdays and weekends. Camouflage that spoke of function, protection, purpose. A canvas strap that carried weight without complaint. We were separate things then, different fabrics, different lives, different hands that wore us into softness.
