the flannel is worn away at the elbows on the shirt you've worn for 14 years.
it smells just like you, even after a wash.
soft as skin to touch, i pet the sleeve against your forearm and imagine what you would look like if your skin were flannel patterned. it wouldn't be very different.
you take my hand in yours. we're at the movies. or an arcade. or one of your friend's parents' house on a Thursday night. you take my fingers and thread them through yours. threaded tighter than the fibers holding the elbows of your shirt together.