I am your favorite shirt.

Wanted and loved.

Worn and fit.

Each time I am used, I know my purposes to be true.

Steadfast I welcome the new comings of a day with you. 

For days, months, I experience your joy.

The little things.

I know you only like ketchup with your fries,

and you always take the longest route to all your classes.

I know you hate the third period,

and I know all your friends. 

And I know these days of our adolescents slowly fade away into my cotton mesh, ripped from the memories of the past. 

Soon you notice you grew an inch,

your chest is broader,

your head lay more gently on your shoulders. 

Soon I notice you walk past me in your dresser everyday.

Stagnant and poised, I lay expectantly in the air conditioning,

waiting for that same boy to come in and yank me off the hanger,

excited for the day that awaits us.

But that boy has changed.

He doesnt fit into favorite t-shirt anymore.

He’s grown.

He’s built.

He’s moved on.

I watch as I continue to hang in the dresser,

watching the dirt and dust collect among me. 

I was your favorite shirt.

Wanted and loved, Worn and fit, and left behind.