whatifmaybe
As I wait for the doorman to deliver the things I've ordered I like to think of all the things that happen to what I've ordered. How many hands will have touched every single inch before it is finally in my hands? What did those people think? Did they order it as well afterwards or is it just me, alone, in my head.
His sweater, Blue, with white stripes, hangs lifeless over the couch. His body used to fill it out perfectly, but now it just hangs there, over the back of the couch. I can't even remember when he whore it, how he smelled in it. I no longer smell him...