When I clean out my closet, what am I parting with?

Like a layer of life
In the winter,
Languidly lounging amongst layers
Of conflagrant insulation.
Wind lashing,
Yet ably warming the shivering self within.

Like a memory
In years gone by,
Melting colors,
Masking the melodramatic mime
Of melancholy materialism.
Time tearing,
Teasing, the twitters, tatters of dorsal terrain.

Like a shielding coat of armor
In the battlefield of fashion,
Proclaiming promise,
Projecting a portraiture of poetry,
Punctuating periods of productive purpose.
Perhaps, peddling provocation for further pondering.

It’s difficult for me to part with my old t-shirts.
There’s too much of me in them.
If I clean out my closet,
Will I lose the memories?