Religiously the white shirt has been donned on the account of smell,
clean laundry with a hint of body behind it,
a body thinner, more triangular
than the one who wears it.
Worn, Suspicions run through the coffee spits as the white shirt folds under moving arms,
soft sips remind softer lips of the delicacy of each gentle meeting,
and mute sigh escapes in gape as recollections permeate through the brew.
sunshine streams a musical language causing skin to change in appearance,
the girl is fumbling, the fridge is empty of any desirable food, objects, liquids,
in which she planned to ingest in opposal to breathing, tinkering, thinking, of
the reason behind such a shirt she adorns.
In repose, later, she frys in the sheets, curling pillows into triangles, cuddling blankets into protection, smothering her face so not one peep of brightness can shine on the lids,
awake she lies beneath the rapidly pinking skies in which her eyes fail to view through the navy ceiling,
and amazed she feels, she sleeps at last, and dreams emerge through the scent that travels from the shirt, and when she breathes the mist penetrates her pores.
With all willingness to forget, she meets him on another plane.