by Quin

He gave me the t-shirt, still damp from his body, wearing his scent, it was to tide me over until we saw each other again, he said. Letters filled with promises of phone calls that never materialized and the phrase "no time just now" answered my notes that fluctuated between chatty gossip and words of longing, and finally an admission of love, an admission met with a brief response, "you've put a burden on my shoulders." The t-shirt was washed, and became wrapped in my scent, covering the gaping hole in my being, an enormous wound that caused me to stop in the middle of the street, struggling to catch my breath, my bearing. Small steps taken, and a new lover, one I didn't think would be more than a breathing version of the shirt, one taken to ease the pain, rose from my bed and casually pulled it on, having left his fingerprints on my skin, proudly wearing mine on his own. Although physically it dwarfed him, I realized it was far too small for him after he turned to me, kissed me and asked what did I need, what did I want, and I knew his scent was the one that should be the one in the air around me. The man and his t-shirt are both in closets now of different kinds; both of them are dusty, sad, locked away, and longing for the sound of my laughter, the feel of my skin, the security of my love.


Quin isn't the real name. But, it'll do. Born and raised in New Orleans; that place will always be home. Time spent in Denver and Utah, where theater became a passion. Children are loved always; a terrier travels New York City with her; life is still to be discovered in many ways. She is the author of Love Letters.