By MMD
I have washed your shirt
Too many times for the scent
To remain its perfect flirt
From the times I now lament.
Yet the scent remains in jest,
A solemn and vindictive remind
I shall never hold you to my chest,
Your presence, only in mind.
Those days have passed to past,
Now just thoughts of thought,
A dream I yearn to return at last,
Despite the misery that it wrought.
So I keep the shirt in an effort of hope
That the scent shall be purged with heartache and soap.
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