Tea Shirt

I wear your vintage tea shirt.
It has a stain on its collar.
Don’t know where it came from
or why I even care to bother
about the toffee tan blemish color
ruining this perfect artifact bought
straight from Astoria’s thrift shop.

There’s bags under my eyelids—
Signs of sleep wearing thin.
I need an herbal remedy.
Something to ease the chagrin
cuddling the air around me.

It’s two ante meridiem.
I’m half covered in blankets.
While reading Bukowski
beneath the curtain glow,
I watch your chest rise
and fall because apparently
you’re still not awake.

I silently yawn.
Then I branch out my arms.
Your tea shirt tickles my skin.
Doves arouse an alarm,
I wait for your smothered smarm
to convince me I should go back
to sleep—fall in love all over again.

Redolence soothes
my dim-lit complexion.
Your vacillating moods,
unsteady the tempo
where we envy eternal slumber.

Tousled waves leak over pillows,
but I don’t mind your oceans.
You turn to face me at your side
with sincerest cup full of devotion
and make a small, blithe notion
regarding our endearment as
I smell the fig scents smear
the brim of your bottom lip.

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2 thoughts on “Tea Shirt

  1. “Tousled waves leak over pillows, but I don’t mind your oceans.” This is romantic poetry at its best. What started from simple observations ended with a passionate love. Soulful 🙂

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