White Shirt

 

I pulled out a white shirt today,

from my cupboard’s bedrock.

Slightly wrinkled cotton,

with flowers on the smock.

It’s fragrant with memories,

a kerchief in the pocket.

It stings behind the eyelids,

and I am not able to block it.

 

I smell a rainy evening,

spent barefoot on the grass,

With a tepid tea in hand,

and a hazy, wet eyeglass.

I sit wearing the white shirt,

listening for your stead,

The loss of your embrace,

whispers on my neck.

It haunts of whys and what-ifs,

what should be and could be.

It smells of washed-out dreams,

the fragrance of you and me.