Worn

He’s cleaning out the trunk in which his clothes 
are stored for summer, bathing suits, surf shorts, 
swimming goggles, neatly folded beach shirts,
all laundered, put in plastic, and then closed
away—and finds a black and silky bra, 
some short shorts with a tiny waist, a sleek 
black top, all empty of her, as is he, 
although she ghosts through him all night and gnaws
his dreams. They were so close he thought he wore 
her like a skin, as she wore him till they 
wore out. When doubt crawled in, she stored away 
her love and latched the trunk and left. It seems
he catches just a whiff of her somewhere
in the blouse. No, it’s clean. Too clean, too clean.