The shirt laying on top of my wash basket today wasn't mine.
But, I remembered the moment when I took it off of you late Saturday night as I held the white material between my fingers.
Sparks flying in between heated kisses, trailed down beating chests,
as clothes became fewer the closer.
Savoring the comfort of skin touching skin in our short time alone.
I clung to you then,
and now, I'm left clinging to your ***** shirt that still smells like Old Spice and home.
And laying in my dorm alone,
your shirt held to my chest,
I realize that we both want to go home.