You left your white T-shirt at my house
and it smells like you, every inch of it

I run my hands on it,

try to hold onto its well-knit threads
harder than I held onto you

I examine its V-neck
and try to make the same angle with my thumb and index
as I used to do when you wore it
hoping that my hand can still feel your heart beat

I rub my fingerprints against its sleeves
and gently reach the armpit
hoping you'd be tickled
and you'd tickle me back

and I'd sigh, as deeply
and desperately
as I ever could

when I remember,
when I realize
my hopes will never come true

and I'd never feel your heartbeat
or touch your skin through the softness of its fabric
I'd never tickle you
or punch you
or hurt you

I would never be with you

and when my tears fall on your shirt
I hold it as close to me
as it can be

It hits me
this shirt... your shirt...
it smells like me now

and I could never take that away

Kept your shirt but you took your love
Took my chance but you gave it to someone else
Handed you my hope but you squashed it barehanded

Steam rising from hot cotton
Memories stirring
Turning a collar and smoothing under buttons,
first the inside, the plackets
then the shoulders, cuffs and sleeves.
Who knew the ironing of a shirt
could be such a minuet of parts
and caring
and thoughts?
The flesh these folds would clothe, the
hunching of the shoulders, the
reaching out of hands from
clean
crisp
cuffs.
My mother learned from my father learned from his mother
and I to you
bring hot fresh cotton
my love.

You never remember the small
things like the way you sighed against
my neck and the hole in my shirt
and the hole in my heart
and the hole you left behind you.


F.Z.N