His sweatshirt,

Is baggy on her body,

Her small shoulders,

Not being able to replace

His broad ones.

But she holds it as close to herself

As she possibly can,

Mostly through grief,

Because he isn't

Always

By her side at the moment.

The stringy cuffs,

Depressingly hang over her wrists,

Covering half her hands,

Even though they casually rested on his.

Or maybe sometimes,

On warmer days,

His forearms.

His sweatshirt comfortingly wraps her in his

Salty ocean scent,

As if her were there,

Giving her a long-lasting hug.

But it hurts,

That hug,

Even if she tries to push that pain away,

Day by day,

As she,

A daily ritual now,

Zips us his sweatshirt.