washing machine with door ajar

Your smell of mint and citrus infused in my pillowcase,
Becoming a tea bag of spices steamed to the precipice of oblivion.
I don’t want to wash my sheets but a chocolate stain calls for detergent attention.

“Eating chocolate in bed?”
Your mouth sputters, air escaping from a carbonated glass,
Pleasant and causing your eyes to crinkle in
A multitude of waves crashing on a shore of lashes.

A Jackson Pollock of yesterday morning’s coffee
Splattered on the white blanket, a canvas of modern mishap.
Water and soap, fading the black sheets into half a shadow.
The other half missing in a mess of machine monotony.
Joined by my woolen sock, only used in winter, lost by
The churning and static charge changing its magnetic force away from its pair.
A ball of 92% Nylon and 8% Spandex with
Crescent moons of thinned fabric, where you pulled it off,
Finds its way into the
Soapy suds of my afternoon.