Love Flogged

A clothesline is the flag of homely love,
But my laundry
No longer hangs among yours,

Is our love already dead?
If so, why does my palm
Still pain in remembrance of
The curves of your body?

My laundry
No longer hangs among yours,
Yet my Scriabin’s pathos
Still echoes on the walls
Of your living-room,
Though he is no longer played,
Nor we soil our linen
Together anymore.

Will my palm remember
For longer than your clothesline?
Or will the imprint of your curves
Wisely wither as fast as Scriabin’s echo,
Allowing us to heal
While your clothesline
Makes room for new laundry?