I liked the way my shirt 
Misfit you in a beautiful manner;
Baggy, dripping, and yet hooked,
Almost like a short robe.
You wore it like you owned it,
Like you loved the smell of me,
Like you desired to hug the cloth
That was wrapped around me. 

I see it everyday, hanging in 
The most silent corner of my room,
Away from air, the bright sunlight,
And any kind harshness that'd 
Take away it's originality.
It's motionless but still moves me
Like a painting moves an enthusiast
In a significantly curative way,
But if I gave in to wearing it today,
I wouldn't have the same to say.