today I am wearing your shirt.

it is hidden beneath a thick, bulky sweater
because I need something you to hold on to, to physically feel.
I feel this inane need to protect it from the gaze of strangers
who wouldn't even know it was yours,
who wouldn't know your shirt
from my shirt
from any old shirt anywhere
and who wouldn't care.

it is hot today,
unseasonably so,
and I am buried in this mammoth sweater,
sweating, for
no
fucking
reason,
waiting in a frenzied haze of shallow breathing
and racing thoughts
for a response, any response,
to the fragile, pathetic little message my fingers sent before my brain could intervene that asked
quietly,
meagerly,
pitifully
are you going to break up with me?