Says the Shirt

I do not have his big brown eyes, but these little blue buttons. I have no beard, dark rimmed glasses or laughter, just this triangular collar and gray stitching. I am not made of hair, freckles and skin, but soft long sleeves and plaid pocketed cotton. He breathes, while I can only flap in the wind. He speaks while my only expression depends on if he folds my cuffs or not. But we are both washable, dependable, warm and comforting. Yet, one day, he might become ill and die, while I'll just tatter before I am bagged and donated. You know, though, whenever he leaves, his things will be your only graspable memory.