I bought the black suit three years before I needed it,
hung it in the closet like a promise I couldn’t break
knew the day was coming when the phone would ring at 3 AM
and I’d have to dress for disappearing
watched you fade in hospital white
while I pressed creases into funeral fabric at home
the tailor measured me for grief, took my dimensions like he already knew
I’m wearing death like a second skin, buttons done up tight against the crying
black wool and broken promises, pockets full of words I never said
walking through the ceremony in clothes I bought for losing you
every thread a countdown, every stitch a nail in time’s coffin
this suit knows more about endings than my mouth ever will
you told me once that dying was just another road trip,
pack light and don’t look back
but I’m drowning in fabric and formaldehyde, suffocating in respectability
these shoes are shined mirrors reflecting a man I don’t recognize anymore
the tie is choking me with tradition, strangling me with what’s expected
I wanted to burn these clothes before I ever wore them,
make a pyre of my premonitions
but here I am, dressed for the apocalypse of you,
standing where the eulogy starts
they say wear your Sunday best to say goodbye but Sunday died when you did
now I’m just a scarecrow in mourning gear, stuffed with all the wrong things
the cemetery grass stains these pants like accusations
mud from your grave clings to the cuffs, won’t wash out no matter how I scrub
I’m a ghost in gentleman’s clothing, haunting the living with my pressed lapels
while they talk about peace and rest I’m screaming inside this wool prison
remembering how you laughed at funerals,
said the living looked more dead than the corpses
and you were right, we’re all just walking wakes in expensive costumes
pretending fabric can contain the flood, that seams can hold souls together
I’ll wear this suit until it rots off my bones
let the moths eat through the memories, let time unravel every careful stitch
when I die, burn it with me, turn this prophecy to ash
let the smoke carry both of us away from these rituals we never believed in
the jacket’s hanging in my closet now, empty as your chair
waiting for the next funeral, the next goodbye I’ll have to dress for
we’re all just buying suits for future grief,
measuring ourselves for what we’ll lose
and I’m so fucking tired of wearing death like it’s fashionable