Green Pants

They asked me if I wanted anything of hers,
and I replied: her green pants.
I saw her in them, before she withered and twisted away.
She was in my father's kitchen, and she was
glowing. Ready to battle, smooth as always,
a niece's dream.

But her hill went up, and she went down.
All the way, until it was over. And I lost
the first person I was ever in love with.
I mean really smitten with, enamored by,
a late-night brownie-baking grace.
And I lost the other people who were in
love with her, they withered too, but remained.

But anyway, they asked me if I wanted anything of hers.
And I said Yes, please. Those green pants. Because
I thought they might make me glow, like she did.

For some reason, no one could find them. So I'm here
looking for other ways to find her glow.