Not Yours Until
It’s not yours until you bleed
on it, until it tastes
the kiss of Vancouver rain
or stains with the salt
of your tears—or other
fluids—until you decide
it matches your aesthetic,
until they like it on Instagram,
post going viral, until you fold
the tip of a page or write
in the margins, until you cut
the tags and the 30 days pass,
no returns no exchanges,
until it starts to smell like you,
until you forget where
you got it from, until you rip it,
threads dangling,
and sew it back together,
until you gulp it down, tongue chasing
the last drop, until you sing
it out loud, until you remember
every line, or forget it ever
belonged to anyone else,
until the luster fades
and it starts to take on
the imprint of your fingers
and palms, until a part
breaks, until the labels
turn illegible in the wash,
until it follows the shape
of your bones, changes color,
until you stop loving it
and start treating it like air.