Obsessions

His hands always adorned, as if attending a masquerade ball.
A collection that seems to double by the day.
Above the traditions, his haberdasher is appalled.
Extra space, a whole new closet he would cause him less dismay.

His favorite, now gone forever.
So soft, yet so durable.
He wishes he wishes for nevers.
He wants one glove returnable.

His love is his pain.
His only joy in life, is his secret shame.
Bound by a memory of once was. Something so plain.
His soul is left forever maimed.

Burned up and scarred by one glove, its missing mate becoming his obsession.
Who knew the absence of an object could leave such a long lasting impression.