How My Heart Sings!

The beat up vintage shirt you wear to bed is something close to a treasure. Its sheerness clings to your shoulders and chest, highlighting every miraculous freckle, vein, and tattoo. Tiny moth-bitten holes play peek-a-boo with the contrast between the fabric and your skin. The soft cotton embraces every verdant molecule, revealing mornings you wake before me to care for our garden. I think the collar is my favorite part, curled in on itself from years of being stretched and pulled, a threadbare halo between your neck and your heart. Unfailingly, the shirt will find its way to me, still warm with your body's heat. I cant help but hold it close to my face, burying my nose i