Your clothes,
my back.
Your scent
entangled in every inch
of the fabic.
It was my favorite part
of being drowned
in your clothing.
Your scent.
Your safe presence.
No longer.
On the ground, drowning in your clothes
after you promised
it’d never happen again.
Round number 8 now.
Tears seamlessly running
down my face. Drowning.
Your scent, a reminder of each broken promise.
A prisoner of your love.
Chained by your clothing.
Drowning.
Held captive by your scent.