You can zip it, button it, and then with no time in between, un-button immediately after. The meaning of choice is fully reflected in your finger’s movements. No time is wasted because the shirt you want beckons for you too. Without deliberation it’s yours and in your closet. It’s a slow burn but you come to realize, it wasn’t truly a closet until you two met. You had only exaggerated the word before this shirts time and possibly—abused it. Would you like this one with racing stripes of dark orange? No? Then this white one is just for you. Does it come in blue? I hope so, but if it doesn’t, lie to me. I’m colorblind anyway and will never ask another living soul “what color is my shirt?”. The ignorance will be all mine and I’ll be fine with it, because this feeling has to be one of a kind. My coat of armor, my second skin, my hug when I need one, my shirt.