You knocked on my door that night
because you wanted to knock me
off my wondering, wandering feet.

You wanted me to tell you that story you like,
because the person I am
is a novel one to you.

It was never real,
you only did it
because we’re all different when we’re away from home,
and you wanted proof.

I have been in love two times and once was with the idea of you.
You and your perfect, worn, cotton shirt that hugged and hung from your slippery shoulders,
it’s thin stripes wrapping around your body.
Maybe I was jealous of that shirt;
you took it everywhere you went and you never threw it away,
despite the fact that it was tired of being stretched and stressed in the elbows.
Or maybe I never really fell for you,
maybe I fell for that shirt that showed up at my door that night
and welcomed me with its soft, sweet, sleepy-time aura.

I was silly
to think a shirt could love me back.