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To A Box Of Shirts
You wear white shoes… I forget where I met you. I forget the first time I saw you naked. I forget what we fought about the weekend in April when we went to your parents.
I see your two front teeth when I drink milk. I remember how they hate the cold. I get a whiff of you the subway and cozy up to a warm stranger; just for a moment, just to be with you again. I have a single dress sock that was forgotten under the sink in haste. Sometimes I slip it on and wear it around under my boot all day. I imagine that I glow when I have this secret. I giggle periodically, envisioning how the sandwich artist at the deli would react if he knew I was wearing only one sock… and that it was a size thirteen, argyle, men’s dress sock.
Last night was Tuesday night, so I cooked lasagna. You know how I hate lasagna but we’ve gotten used to having it on Tuesdays after the gym. I find myself cooking it and leaving it on the counter to be devoured by the cats.
I got a call from your sister last week. She was wondering if I still had your box of summer clothes, and if she might have a few shirts for her boys. I lied and said I gave them away. She wouldn’t understand that I still need every single one of them; that I’m so afraid of the day they start to smell like me.
I forgot to remember where I met you…and now I can’t ask.”
Posted in Personal
