The loose threads…

Blue sleeves dangling over her wrists,
just a little too large,
just a little too,
empty.

it is warm round her body,
where he would be,
if he could be.
and its smell ascends upwards,
and he,
holds her inconspicuously.

She fingers each button,
and relates his fingers,
having buttoned this shirt,
a hundred times or more.

She conjures him inside it,
and as she,
inhales his essence,
which still dawdles.
She feels the softness of the threads,
draping over her skin.
and,
with each crinkle of the fabric,
It’s as his own fingers,
are soothingly caressing her shoulders,
her back.

And she smiles,
for wearing his shirt,
not only gives her joy,
but makes her feel closer,
closer to him for a while.

He might be bygone and she is here,
but while wearing,
his cast off shirt,
She can still feel him near.
She smile, “it’s hers, she claim it!” she bury her face to hide flushing cheeks.

To be plainspoken,
this shirt is evidence that he has been here before.
This shirt is proof that She has found
perfection.
Proof beyond doubt that She’s not dreaming.

So when he’s gone, She fondles him in the threads.
And in those threads there is hope.
Hope that her infinity has his name on!