His Shirt

A long and quiet afternoon,

A furtive slip behind a door,

I pull a simple cotton shirt

From the bottom dresser drawer.

--

My flushing cheeks caress it,

And no matter how I try,

As much as I inhale its scent,

I can’t be satisfied.

--

His smell, his voice, his striking air

Wash through my beating breast

Intangible and fleeting,

To this pain I can attest.

--

I slip it on and hug myself,

Recalling his willing touch.

My skin erupts in goose bumps.

The yearning becomes too much.

--

How cruel it is to have such tokens

That arouse and tease the senses,

Rekindling an obsession

To which there are no defenses.

--

In habitude I close my eyes,

Summoning his face.

With each breath, it recedes and fades,

Leaves heartache in its place.

--

The shirt goes back into the drawer.

I smooth it with my palm.

Bittersweet these memories,

An evanescent balm.