The green Crew Tee you wore all year,
jacket relayed with sweater with sunshine with lips and lips and rain,
over it, and over it and under it, until
your curves took away its colour,
and in return,
let the Crew Tee eat off the yellow dye of your skin, crinkling
high was three summers ago,
when heartbreak still meant you must remain horizontal.

Now, now the men have grown a respective tone,
the women revisiting Emily and Susan,
you have read some poems,
fancied a few neighbours’ dogs,
and moved to a new bed to love,
under the same covers,
to the same crowded imaginary paparrazi, but every time
you pose in front of the mirror with those Crew Tees,
you’ll remember me, me,
who reentered the craving for crave through the way you unclip,
and slide off your bra under your arms,
without taking off the Crew Tee,
the way you talk about coffee over literature,
I realize,
three summers are only three summers,
not three years.