[I’m your shirt]

Your surface is slightly damp as you guide me over your contours. shhhhh I sound as your fingers push forward inside the tube formed by uniting raw edges. You are fast, distracted. You have performed this thousands of times before with others. I rest on your shoulders, doubled up here, masking your form as I offer support to the rigid band,  which encircles your throat presenting your face upwards, mounted on my gleaming plinth.  You are paying attention now. Yeah, this is when you notice me, when we dance together, you leading, craning your chin upward as you fasten my button between stiff upturned v. You look down your nose toward the glass. Come on, see what I’m doing for you here!
But I am distracted. You push me against your chest, tugging me downward as you stroke my surface against the now upstanding fur of your body. Air escapes whhhhh. I am cool and indifferent to your warm indentations and even your damp crevice where my articulated cylinder cleaves to my main frame. You know you want this.
Hey, I hardly know myself. I just do for you. I’m so far from the fields now; an international time traveller.  But my stuff is the finest. Long staples. Gossypia Barbadense. Bundles and bundles of soft seed balls, could have blown in to new territory but they ended up on skin.  Pickers’ fingers sore from spiky capsules, but you just can’t resist how it makes you feel and look, yeah, and everyone wants a piece. You’re not picking it anyway.
White is always the colour. It is what you see when you close your eyes and think ‘shirt’.

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