The Shirt

It still smells of you
even after 20 washes,
and years in the drawer.

No, not smells. Feels.
Smells happens when
you kiss me
and you taste wonderful
but I haven't opened my mouth.

The luxury of your shirt
is in the feel,
the soft caress of its
lips over my breast
as I slowly button it down.

It is like you in many ways.
It tempts me with its softness
and closes over me to shut out
all others.

Oh, I miss you! I wish
it was you here, touching me,
engulfing me,
not this goddamn shirt.

But you don't want me
anymore
and I'll have to settle for
the arm reaching out to me
with no hand to hold.

(c) 1998-2003 Rachel Rossos.