Dirty Linens

I lay in this mess that is memory
tangled in the mistiness of morning
the comforters from last year
ruined by the color of reminiscing
all the things missed, collecting in a bundle.

With each cycle as yellow sweats
on the submarine eye glass, the t-shirt
with the smell of her arm-pits, spins
360 at the 24-hour all you can clean.
I realize how lonely I’ve become.

And I’m not relieved by possibilities
whispering promises like crickets
while her laughter fades
in this room’s blue-black ear.