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My shorts smell like sweat and outside, and mushrooms bubbling in butter, but I put them on anyways because they are a memory I wish to keep. I can smell them even as I stand above them, my nose elevated but aware still of their pungency and then I wonder if their smell has leaked somehow, onto my shirt into the skin above the waist band, and will it leave a stain of that summer day, blue and green and black, soaking into me, a tattoo of a time. I laughed when I went under the water, loud.