Oversized Monica Coutinho I pick up his shirt and wear it around me like a trophy. It is oversized, smells of his faint body sweat and makes soft creases as I tuck it under my high waist blue denims remind me of him. Habits, of never ironing shirts of wearing round spectacles with half broken glass of reading books from last page to first. When we first kissed, he carved his fingers through my chest and drew my trivial heart flickering. Flickering and plunging across one wall to another like an old lightbulb with wings. Now it’s been three months since I started to keep little photographs of him tucked beneath my pillow. And they say “You write too many poems on the futility of existence. And how dear, there is no beauty in that.” If I could, surely I would listen.
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