Last aficionado

He left me that brown scarf…
Carelessly I had snatched it from him, and made it mine,
His pet seized, not a shred of despair broadcasted – “it just looks so robust on you!,” he said.

The conscious took stage, and the parting approached,
It dawned upon us conversely, that this wasn’t a petite departure…
It was the final, the cult, a perpetual goodbye.

“And so, who was to guard the scarf?,” I asked.
He hesitated, hushed me to take advantage over it.
I wavered, for it smelled of him – the risk of its emotional bondage I had predicted.
But there was no flipside,
and just like that, he withdrew to where I would never call him my own…
Now, the scarf lies in my wardrobe…brown with greys and shades of white,
Persistently uttering in hushed undertones – “I want to retreat to the same neck, that of my precious beholder, for I find no warmth here…”