eyes open to tomorrow; then the laundry. I throw my clothes in and would join them if only I could fit. dream of a machine to rinse me free of filth and thought. no doubt someone else has wanted this before. patterns on and on and then some more. what a shame we’re all the same beneath the skin.
I clean the kitchen of the house I’m breaking into. press buttons and the machines sing and talk more than the people using them to cook and store the meals they never finish. labels on every other surface and instructions ask too much. a foreign logic in this place to laugh about with someone else. we don’t always need a home: a roof and a bed is more than enough. there is milk in the fridge and dreams wait on clean sheets.
hope is a pill I knew much better than to reach for. regret is the consoling hug that never leaves me waiting. clouds come and roll regardless. I dry teacups and think about you.
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