I'd like to call it a dance record,
drowning you out, applied in layers,
different colors, textured fabrics.
Folding sheets, stretched between arguments.
This is our routine, the same one we've performed
for generations. I heat dinner unevenly,
wait for you to come home, romanticize, drown you out.
I pretend the warm laundry is you. The music of chores,
surprised at how common it feels. Your favorite
sweater is black with red stripes, and I pretend
it doesn't smell like you, drown you out.
I'd like to call it big band, hailing magic, chaotic,
but the only charge I feel comes from dryer sheets, static.
I am static.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment