Five t-shirts, one stained
by the one night we spent together,
permeated by your aromatic
scent and the lingering feeling
that there won’t be another.

A pair of pants that aren’t mine.
You ask for them back but
I’m sentimental and it’s the
one thing I have to
remember you by.

A sweatshirt, yours, and
I refuse to actually wash it.
It still smells like you and
that’s a comfort on these
cold and lonely nights.

A bra that is mine, you tore
it a little in your haste to get
to the good part, the part that
was over too quick, seemingly
before it even began.

Socks, some mine, some yours.  
All with pairs just as I am without.
My feet don’t get cold like they
did that night. I wish they had been
warmer. Maybe you would have stayed.