i’ve become comfortable with the way your ripped t-shirt hangs off my shoulders, and the way your detergent mixes with your cologne,
so you smell like home,
even if i’m not supposed to live there,
or love there,
but constant nights i wish for the older times where you took me into your room; crawling on the twin bed with breath reeking of beer and bad decisions,
but i didn’t want to regret you,
so we kissed cheeks and whispered secrets, and shared gazes i’d never tell to anyone,
for it was ours.
and now i wear my own clothing, yet i yearn for your shirts every time i enter your room,
where you used to whisper down my body,
and trace your fingertips along my waist like butterfly kisses on gentle skin.
and we find ourselves back in that room from time to time, no longer sharing,
no longer having something that’s ours,
but i see you in the familiar light,
against the familiar linen sheets,
and i fall into the comfort that is a dangerous fault,
for it used to be ours; the comfort, and silence, and goofy laughter i’ll hold close,
because you were you, and i was me, and i was yours, and you were mine, and each night was ours.
so promise me to never give away those shirts i once wore to someone else,
i think we will find ourselves back there in that nostalgia,
and find each other in the dark,
with yearning, excited hands,
panting breaths with the need for one another,
where we fall together and fit like lock and key,
though sometimes i wish we weren’t,
and it makes being uncomfortable without you that much worse.
so please keep the door open, we will be back to what we once were,
and i will sleep in your shirts as you whisper “i love you” low enough where you think i cannot hear, but like my heart; my ears, and arms will always be open,
to you,
to the idea of togetherness again,
to everything that’s ours.