His Shirt

I stole his shirt

It was pristine white

With a few flecks of blue

It wasn’t a pattern

Holding it close

You could see

The inkstains

Fading from age

I held it close

Took it to bed

Contemplated wearing it

Or just snuggling

Right into it

The memory of his smile

Froze my thought process

I ended up

With it dangerously

Wrapped around my head

His smell lingered

I could hear his laughter

In the folds of the collar

Feel his heartbeat

In the nooks of that pocket

The world knew him as the confident man

As his neatly starched cuffs exhibited

But his nervousness lay bare

In the undone buttons

His hidden insecurities

Seeped through the fraying hem

And his mismatched last button

was another story in itself

The shirt looked like any other

Just like he could blend right in the crowd

I knew

Only my heart knew

I could hear his soul speak to mine

And pick his shirt from a thousand

Of the same kind

The inkstains

Fading from age

Were a testimony of his hard work

And no care for style

It wasn’t fancy

Or a big brand

It was special

It was divine

It was his

And he was mine