First I notice your eyes — all red
and your mouth dragging from the weight
of some grief about to erupt into tears.

You just left a black t-shirt on a parked car.
Maybe it was the last of him you could still smell
and he insisted you give it back.

I imagine how you held that fabric
to your face and inhaled every atom,
as deep as you could into yourself.

This is the end of your first love,
the one that’s supposed to last forever.

Long ago, I put my fist through gritty drywall
after being dumped by a girlfriend
and it doesn’t get any easier as you age.

I treasured a tinny office voicemail from my wife,
the last time she sang me happy birthday,
until I left the company, years after we’d divorced.

Everyone has stories — this your first.
You think you’ll never love again
but there are plenty of black t-shirts yet to come.