kelia Feb 16
you are so lovely in your wicked ways
you are heavy
i can feel it, so can the room

everyone is waiting for that pause
the one you find yourself existing in

you are so lovely in your wicked ways
finding the quirks
the imbalanced romanticism in their dialect

'yeah, i’m a southern boy'
the kind you swore you’d stay away from

you spent too many nights with knights at rogue water
underage but over your limit

oh boy, that patagonia
slinging country song quarters into the jukebox

take me home!

you are so lovely, even in your wicked ways

do you like country music?
he turns left for the freeway
do you know how to drive stick shift?

you are so lovely, even in your wicked ways
i didn’t fold her laundry
she left my XXL t-shirts without wrinkles
pink, without wrinkles

you are so lovely in your wicked ways
he mixes a couple of drinks for you
reaches to grab your hand from across the bar
seared by the tea-light candle

i waltzed out of that bar like i had him
he is small and beautiful with a temper
i could love him all while hating him

i’m just a gal whose nose bled
after falling into his bed (more than once)
more than once
Brianna Oct 2017
Spinning under the moon in your t-shirt- fireflies and windy songs flew around us while we danced.
Kisses under the stars and hand holding while we moved to your favorite song on the radio right now.

You and your smile always making me melt.
You and those eyes, always burning holes into my blush filled cheeks.
The way your hand felt on my lower back and the other one in my hair.

There was something about wearing your t-shirt to bed the scent of you washing me of all bad dreams I could ever have.
Maryrose Alarcos Oct 2015
Your scent lingers
On this black fabric
That was once yours
But gave it to me
In the most unexpected time
The sweet yet manly scent
Never fails to entice me
Never fails to arouse me
And now this article
Of clothing is in my possession
I can now wear it
Or even cling to in my sleep
Whenever I long for you
Whenever I miss you
Whenever I need you
thank you for the shirt.
i will take care of it as much as i do for you.
Silence Sep 2015
I've been trying to convince myself
that I'm okay.
But your favorite tshirt is stained
with my blood.
And I know
I've been lying to myself.
for a long time.
Eden Cytherea Jul 2015
I remember you wore that shirt when we would stay in long nights together.
It made me feel so safe, seeing you decorated in those perfectly stitched designs.
In your sleeves you would wrap me and tell me everything would be fine next time.
Your collar was a burying ground for my secrets. But now it's just a target for my tears.  
That shirt reminds me of when you spoke to me softly as my panic attacks turned to night terrors and I was terrified to shut my own eyes.
I remember when I put on that shirt.
With the red collar.
You begged me to get into bed with you.

You clothed my fears with the cotton nooses of your wardrobe.
I thought I cut them off and destroyed the straight jackets in your closet
They could never hold me down again.

You're wearing that T-shirt.
Without me.
but Somehow,
I still can't breathe.
Brittany Wynn Apr 2015
Her face, flawless and filtered, flows over
my chest, ribs, stomach, hips, fitting the curved
mounds of my body, and even within simplicity
of thread and dye, I sense her presence as her face
hangs from my frame, a statement louder than pillow-lips,
Nancy Sinatra-hair and a glamorous 60’s bitch face.

When paired with leggings and an artfully-distressed denim jacket,
I become a member of the “freshman generation of degenerate
beauty queens,” a hipster fallen to the circumstance of youth,
but I wear her face and the romance of it all reminds me:
we are not defined as Lolitas lost in the hood, or distant,
airy voices in a sea of crude jokes and half-baked skits

meant to highlight shortcomings of a person who doesn’t give
two fucks. Lana fits me better than my ribbed, red
sweater and even amidst gods and monsters,
this T-shirt makes pretty last, and I am just as cool.
Martin Narrod May 2014
while I may do you perfectly. the snow angels on gasoline st., did you
see them? All of the houses were dripping wet too, one girl with gold laces on her leopard shoes wore red plastic pants; totally soaked to the bone.

to train ourselves to brave the heat of each others' bodies as we awaken in  one small bed, one small blanket. the both of us yawn. it's so fun to make waffles but neither of us like to eat preference. I love you to death but prefer to brush my teeth alone- one tooth at a time.

embrace your new t-shirt, even though not everyone enjoys a good show of a flock of crows. hand drawn indie wicker-hipster prints. coffee by the pint. you crack me up like vitrifying glass sheens of the individual bubbles in a bubble bath or the stoned, glazed eyes of the monsters' eye while a shark attacks.

creaky sounds of bodies mapped by fingers, tickled tummies rippled by listening to witch house singers. you crack me up, count chocula. It's Saturday, I love to laugh while laying down. everybody's funnier when they're laying on the ground. we toast to ghosts.

luminous lengths of birthday candles

lickedidddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd­ddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd­dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd                                                            d 0  y0urself as best you can

— The End —