You smell like your mother’s washing powder. Your sweatshirts are pressed. Your hair’s been force-washed this morning in the shower. You ate the selection of cereals found in your house since you were six, since you first ate cereal.
I’ve met your mother. She sprays your perfume when you’ve left the house. She’s doused in it. I don’t know how you haven’t seen the liquid dwindle, the glass lighten. Maybe she’s replacing it each time it almost runs out. Maybe you want for nothing.
I want to take your shirt off, understand the stitching in your jeans’ legs. I could’ve sworn you said you’d seen Top Gun but now you say, “Oh yeah, Tom Cruise. My dad loves his films.” I hide my DVD collection and try to remember what sleeping next to somebody felt like.