Laundry
Peel the stained denim from your legs which have carried you to places where I know you’ve been reckless.
Remove your lived-in hoodie which has finally returned to you after you’d lent it out for months. It smells like her, like six figures and a full bottle of a Le Labo fragrance that I only smell on you when you sloppily crawl into bed at dawn, and I pretend you’ve been there the whole night.
That silly, useless metal band is always anywhere but on the finger that’s supposed to connect to your heart, like in the pocket of your jeans, or in the nightstand drawer. One day, I think I’ll find it sparkling in the trash bin.
Next, toe off the socks I’ve never seen before, likely from the convenience store next to her downtown flat.
I’ll take your clothes, and using the same rushed hours you used last night, will scrub away yesterday’s stains beneath July’s 8 p.m. sun seeping through your other replenished garments hanging on racks, poles, and lines.
The stains will return to their respective places anyway, just like how you will go back tomorrow or even again tonight.
Once I’ve folded your garments into neat squares, I’ll place them on the right side of our queen-sized bed, and I’ll lay on the left, content to know I’ve cleaned your clothes, every dishonest spot dissolved, a fresh slate awaiting next time’s scum.
