Fitting

I used to wear your shirts.

They were too big for me.

We would roll about in bed and kick off our shoes at the world,

as if the gesture was enough.

I wore your shirts like an armor, the same way

you wore my scent,

not a lingering thing, but a presence;

like rumpled blankets,

or the handphone I’d leave behind, absent-mindedly-

which I would return to collect in due time,

and smile, and say that I was getting old, at 16.

You would laugh a small laugh,

not because I was funny, but because you loved me, back then.

I used to wear your shirts.

I used to wear your shirts.

After the end, I kept one, and you didn’t notice.

It hangs in my closet, and smells of you.

It is a sad, heavy thing.

It is still too big for me.