I've always wondered if
separating light laundry
from the darks
is still common practice?
That same way egg whites
filter through your fingers
or a sieve — simply so they
are free of the yolk.
Or maybe not anymore.
maybe the greyish mass,
I get from the laundromat on the corner,
is the omelet of my happiness?
It hardly even matters,
detergents nowadays are made
so colors don't bleed into water.
purity isn't pinkened by reds
and serenity comes out
only slightly less bright,
than it originally was.
So why is it, after all,
that I can only recall
your face in a smear of black?
Last summer was different tint —
as far as I still can tell.
Unbothered with lint,
you said you won't fall. But fell.
It wasn't quite
head over heels -
what a frivolous saying
to assume you tripped
while falling for me...
except, you didn't.
You stumbled
into a relationship
that added rhinestones
and gold leaf to your canvas.
...do I put canvas and denim..?
One or another
always ends up in tears.
Your flowers smelled of soil.
I had to wash my shirts each time.
Yellow as yolk, they bore
resemblance to a fried up Sun.
Ended quickly, too.
Life sapped by the very water
that once nurtured it -
similar to how your wrists
became sinew and your collarbones
stuck out.
Razor edges of a porcelain doll,
aged into sallow and dandelion.
I've always wondered if
separating light laundry
from memories
Is still common practice.
I guess the mixture is not devoid of charm.
Yet when I open the big machine,
And see your flowers, yellow as yolk,
Still staining my perception of time —
Maybe washing them away was never the point?
I think it's good enough as a conclusion
Thx @lone iris for the experience ^_^
