Sunlight on a Borrowed Shirt

The city below is all sirens and deadlines, but up here on this concrete slab of a balcony, time just stops. I'm wearing his shirt—the one that smells like old coffee beans, cheap tobacco, and the kind of honest sweat you only get from working ten hours straight in a garage.
It’s too big for me; it swallows my frame whole, but damn if it doesn't feel like home. I close my eyes against the morning glare, letting the sun bake into my skin while his cotton fabric brushes soft and heavy against my thighs.
He didn't say much when he left at 5 AM—just a rough kiss on the forehead that tasted of salt and sleep. But in this shirt, I can feel him still here, holding me steady while the world rushes past downstairs like an angry river.
I’m just standing there, half-dressed in his life, breathing slow. For once, I don't need a map or a plan; I just want to be this warm version of myself until he comes back and pulls me against him with those grease-stained hands that know exactly how to handle something fragile.

Editor: Street-side Poet