My favorite pink tank top

I found my favorite pink tank top
when I returned home this evening
from my busy day.
It was crumpled on the floor, and wrinkled,
and I looked at it lying there, and it winked at me.
I was taken aback by the wink, and filled with immediate wonder at what it might be trying to tell me.
I picked it up.
I smelled it.
The scent rushed over me, a combination
of my perfume and your shower gel,
of your skin, touching mine;
And it all came rushing back.
I suddenly knew what it had been trying to remind me.
Of the last evening we spent together.
It was trying to remind me, that it had been much happier
lying on the floor of your apartment kitchen,
than it was on my cold bedroom floor.
It was whispering under all life's noises, of my early mornings
and internship hours, and papers to write.
Just waiting for me to root through my piles of clothes,
and find it, so that we could talk about our memories.
I decided it was a girl, and as I smelled her
she recounted details of that night for me.
She reminded me of the way you had slipped her bright pink straps off my shoulders with such ease,
with such affection, while your
mouth took me in, as your time
melted with mine.
She whispered in my ear as I held her to my face
and recounted for me the way she hadn't even made it to your bedroom. That she had been
exposed in the living room
and hastily thrown off on the trip past
your small kitchen.
She stayed quiet as I walked holding her in my hands
from my bedroom to the living room.
She lay next to me on the couch
as I sat, legs tucked under myself
writing this poem.
She lay there, within my sight,
as I got lost in memories of you and I,
and replayed the conversation I had had with
my favorite professor about you
earlier at the little coffee shop uptown.
I found my favorite pink tank top
when I returned home this evening
from my busy day.
It was crumpled on the floor, and wrinkled,
and I looked at it lying there, and it winked at me.