(UNTITLED) Fabric soft and worn, faded red Light and airy, detergent caressed "It suits you," he had said, and he had been right. Now standing outside, it was sticking to skin wet with rain Tobacco smoke rising to nose, from where it had been long secreted in cotton depths Tentative fingers wring out sodden cloth. A former note of vibrancy seems absent, an unwilling campanion to his departure Old cloth belying a multitude of memories She's careful not to stretch the shirt, as it fits so perfectly.
Jessica Stubbs
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