That sweatshirt.

Does it still smell of you?

Does it still remember your touch like I do?

Does it still remember how you wished it wasn’t there?

Does it still remember how you didn’t bother if it was there?

Does it still remember how you made me feel like it wasn’t there?

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Like nothing was there on me?

Except you,  devouring selfishly, every inch of my skin.

Because, nothing else matters, right?


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