Shirtsleeve Ghost

I feel a ghost of you in my shirtsleeves
A whispering sense memory of when we’d sit together
No part of us touching
Only the tip of your sleeve brushing against mine
The shallow reverberations of
Skin against fabric
Fabric against fabric
Fabric against skin
Building to something more electric than the merely sexual
Now with everything my sleeve brushes
I turn, half expecting to see you
But I never do.
The sleeves of others feel like sandpaper
Scouring the inside of my skull
A grasping twig is a razor blade
The wind a relentless nag
You’ve haunted all my shirtsleeves
And I don’t know what to wear any more.

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