One of my favorite poems in the whole world is one man’s love poem — to his suit.

For …and his jacket — whom I know will both fully understand its profound benediction of true love.

Ode To My Suit

Each morning you are waiting,
suit, over a chair
that fills you,
O my vanity, my love,
my hope, my body.
I scarcely
emerge from sleep,
and urinate,
before entering your sleeves,
my legs looking for
the hollows of your legs,
and so held
by your unitiring fidelity,
I go out to tramp the pasture,
I enter into poetry,
I look through windows.
Things,
men, women,
acts, and struggles
go on shaping me;
they go on making my face,
building my hands,
opening my eyes,
wearing out my mouth;
and so,
suit,
I keep on shaping you,
pushing out your elbows,
breaking your threads,
and so your life grows
to an image of mine.
In the wind
you ripple and wave
as if you were my soul;
in bad moments
you stick
to my bones.
Empty, in the dark
of night, dreams
people your mind and mine
with their fantasies.
I wonder
if some day
an enemy’s
bullet
will stain you with my blood,
and then
you will die with me.
Or perhaps
it won’t be dramatic
at all,
but simple,
and you will get sick,
suit,
with me,
growing old
with me, with my body,
and together
we will enter
the earth.

Therefore,
each day
I salute you
with reverence, and then
you cover me and I forget you,
because we are one,
and we will go on being one,
facing the wind, the nights,
the streets, the struggles,
a single body,
perhaps, perhaps someday, inseperable.

— Pablo Neruda (translated by DeWayne Rail)