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She stole that shirt from me years ago.
It was two sizes too big for her, but she wore
it anyway, as if by wearing it
she was wrapping my arms around her.
It was my favorite, but I let her keep it.
I liked to see myself so close to her,
hanging off her shoulders, curving around her hips;
liked to think she could wear me,
even when we were apart.
She said it smelled like me,
earthy but clean,
even after washing it a thousand times.
She would hold it to her nose and inhale
so deeply, as if to draw me inside herself.
But on a misty, cool evening,
we argued by phone over something
inconsequential and critical,
and she appeared at my door;
dark spots on the shirt, a catcher of tears.
When I woke that morning, I dressed to leave.
I left the shirt on the floor where it had been thrown.
When I reached the doorway,
I stopped and turned around.
She sat on the bed, her hair in tangled waves
from one final night together.
She stared at me, then plucked the shirt
from the floor slowly, as though I were a wild animal
she did not wish to frighten away.
She put it on; silence ensued.
The I left. I could not bear to see
myself wrapped around her anymore. |