I wish I was your shirt in all it’s crumpled cotton glory. Bent out of shape, sitting in the creases and curves of your body. Or buttoned right the way up, stretching with every fibre of my being right up to your stubbled cheek. I wish I was your shirt, spending the rest of my threadbare days against your skin, brushing against you, being near you. And then there is that, if you happened to rub your sleeve along your lips as you so often do, I may for a second get to rest upon your mouth while you pause for an instant to think.