T-shirts

You look like I remember,
in that white t-shirt,
your hair cut short.
I can almost feel it
under my fingers,
and you move
the way I remember,
in these closed gestures
of holding back
what rumbles
beneath your skin.
I can’t stop
circling your sun
or seeing the constellation
on your chest,
and I smell the detergent
from your shirt
and the salt
on your skin
all the way from here.

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4 thoughts on “T-shirts

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