They’re gone.
The moment I walk through the door, they’re off.
Flung on a chair.
Left in the hall.
My thoughts have no room for their curious plurality.
Smooth on soft
Soft on Smooth
Free from the work day standard classic blue.
No longer a prisoner to the prep school dress.
Soft as the sky, without you two.
The best part of my day is peeling out of you.
The best kind of pants, are no pants at all —
Flung on a chair, left in the hall.
Fictitious Ink 