The boots fit him perfectly,
not too snug,
not too loose,
like they were
tailored and measured
to fit his feet
and only his feet.
Black, leathered—worn at the tips
and a few casual scuffs
at the right places
that let one know
his habits…
the way he sometimes
kicked the street curb
when he got mad
just slightly,
careful not to get it scuffed,
but he did
and perhaps he knew it would.
He knew scars were inevitable.
He told me once
how much those boots
meant to him.
They were a part of him…
“Like the way you are,” he said.
I fit him perfectly,
not too snug,
not too loose,
like I was tailored
and measured
to fit him
and only him…
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