Sunday Afternoon

To JC

I wring the past
out of the laundry
until my palms hurt
from twisting

The clothesline waits
to take the load
of each article

I hang 
with care
knowing the dry
stiff future
will come.
 
 

To JC 

This room is without you 
grey and damp 

I am the cold surface 
of a mirror 
scattering darkness 
into little pieces 

I long for your hand 
pressed against me 
leaving a steamed outline 
warm, alive