there's you, in your loose knee length skirt and baggy tank top
wrinkles on wrinkles
basking in the soft lights and soft whirling colors and the soft smell of detergent
with your worn hands
you pull and tug at twisted laundry
you turn and fold the teeny navy boxer briefs
and the small off-white t-shirt
"don't touch"
you shake your head of shoulder length golden brown hair
contrasting with his white baldness
it gleams with electric light
I would have never have known
You were connected
He is folding a flannel button down an old cordoruy jacket black dress pants
You are examining a floral dress a sagging brasiere small overalls (osh kosh bgosh)
Looking for stains
Your grimace says "pain"
And soapy hearts
Dirty souls
You spin to him and he holds you beneath him
He strokes your arm
It is his duty
He is apathetic and his eyes circle above your head following the blond in the small tank top
You grip him fiercly.
You belong like a white tablecloth in a load with white sheets
He is different, a white sock in a load of jeans
You twirl away to watch the spinning dirtiness
The endless cycle
I can imagine tears on your face
Wet water
But I am too far way to see
I am in the darkness
I envy you
Your fake light
Your gentle smile
Your twisted heart
Your cycle of darks