Untitled-10/3/96

Sitting here, on this lonely bed,
in your old pajamas,
top button missing,
spot of jelly still near the hem,
a tiny trace of my lips left on the collar.
The waist still too big for me,
legs way too long, dangling threads from the cuffs.
They still smell faintly
of your aftershave, my perfume - I can't bear to wash out.

I remember the first time I saw you
wearing these old pajamas.
Coffee at 3 am,
sitting indian-style on the floor.
We were giddy with laughter, like children,
with our discoveries of each other,
with discoveries of ourselves.

Many a night spent the same,
taking turns wearing those old pajamas,
our scents meshing,
in symbolic worship of our union,
so we could call something ours.

Well, this is pretty stinky. I don't even know who I was talking about. It sounds, simultaneously, like I'm talking about a father, an adulterous lover, or a new love. I think I made up the whole thing, anyway. I do like this line: "in symbolic worship of our union."