The Thrift Store

The thrift store holds relics of time,
Wondering what lives were lived in
the shirts left behind.

A red dress dances on a hanger,
Wondering who danced in the dress before.
Who gave it life? Did it start with a night on the town?
To only end with a lonely night in bed.

The stain on the sweatshirt,
A beloved sweatshirt with the strings coming undone, unraveling,
no longer useful, abandoned,
by an owner who once
knew how to love.

A suspect stain on a white wedding dress.
A faded brown stain that may have been a bright red, faded by
many washes of bleach.
To hide the lies of a day
better left to forget.

relics that face the chance
of a new owner to live in it,
to breathe life back
into the lifeless. To dance
the dance of life one more time.

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