Cruel Optimism

There is a sweater that hangs in my closet. It is blue and made of some fancy and delicate material. Sometimes I take it out of the closet–to talk to it or remind myself how much it cost or inspect it for abnormalities or hold it up to my face or rub it between my fingers. But I do not put it on. Were I to put it on, I fear I would not be able to take it off without destroying it. So it hangs there, lonely and afraid,  stretching slowly toward the ground.