My Gloves, my Friends

I cast my eyes over my gloves. Empty shells.
They once belonged, contained warm red blooded hands.
Warn for protection or warmth.
Where are the hands now?
Are they searching for their lost gloves?
They are here with me, their gloves.
Collected containing memories of the person who wore them.
Each taking on their own personalities.
Gloves with character. Inside is a blue print left by the hand that wore them.
Sometimes I wear them. Which shall I wear today?
I chose the blue ones worn by a friend.
They are my favourites. He was a good mate.
But he went away, without his gloves.
I get comfort from them. I feel close to him when I wear them. Like holding hands.
My hands snugly inside where his hands were.
I don't want to take them off now.
Perhaps I will tomorrow, but today we are together him and I.
Blue was his favourite colour, it's mine now.
I wonder if he thinks of me.
Where is the missing glove. It waits alone.
One day I will find the other.
She will return to me.
The gloves will be a pair, to be hung with the others. Will she stay with me, or abandon me like the others did?
I don't really care. I have no friends now.
Just my gloves.