The first time I saw them, they were folded neatly by the door, concealed in plastic
Thick jumpers, heavy eyelids and clouds of smoke keeping us warm.
He wore them for the first time, sliding his legs apart and staring boldly into space
They took it in turns to beat him up and he wiped the blood on his trousers
The next time I saw them they were crumpled on his floor at his grungy little flat.
The walls were mouldy and it smelt like smoke and old food.
We stubbed out cigarettes on plates of food and sat in silence
They slid tabs under their lips whilst I slid into the pyjamas
I wore them sprawled out in the mud, clutching a bottle of wine
I wore them curled up in somebody else’s bed, tears threatening me
I wore them when I clawed at your skin and told you how much I love you
I wore them, Sam’s muddy, bloody, pyjamas.