I haven’t washed your oversize baseball shirt. I couldn’t bring myself to. It smells just like you. You know, your scent of dope greatness, ease and godly insight.
If I could capture your scent into a tiny grey tinted glass perfume oil bottle. I will.
I will drop your scent on my left shoulder. Just where my cheek rests on in bliss after your gentle, deepest thrusts make me cry out on ecstasy.
But I have no perfumed oils of you.
So I’ll wear your shirt after I wash off my workout sweat. As my hands will rub mocha lather over my glowing melanin. I’d remember how your slender fingers wash my shoulders while your soft brown lips kiss my nape. “Yuck”. “STOP”. I’d say then. “Just wash my back!”, I’d order in between neck twists, giggles and bubbles.
I guess I can say I washed your shirt if it’s draped over my damp skin. It’s clean if it’s fabric brushes off tiny water beads from my areola. If it’s movements; brushing and light grazing against my hazelnut sized nipples brings memories flashing. Memories of me unbuttoning its white plastic buttons and sliding its off white contrast away from your dark chocolate slender chest. Memories of how your tongue swirls erotic wonder around my areola like the passion fruit in R.S.V.P’s sweet Pornstar Martini. Of memories of laughter, Afrobeats playing, sweet names calling, career advancement planning. These memories coloured by weed smoke films, vibrant Ankara throw pillows and faint snack munching.
You say you’d be back for your shirt and me. Till then my nose will be buried it, my naked curves rolling in it.
Until my Obsessive Conpulsive Disorder drags me away from nostalgia and dilutes your scent with Zip detergent water.