You fill me up with the same laundry detergent you’ve used since you moved in. It claims to smell like cotton, but I think otherwise. A bit like wood, maybe, but it gets the job done.
I spin my contents, programmed like a robot to rotate to the right for exactly twelve minutes. I count eleven every time, but I’ll never tell.
When you’re nervous, you hold onto me, my vibrations like a kind of heartbeat, and maybe that’s what you miss most. I remember when she leaned against me, one hand on me and the other on you. I remember the spin cycle of lips and hands and it never lasted long enough for either of you.
Your suit gets torn in the process, sleeve ripped just underneath. You’ll wear it to your brother’s wedding next Friday and spend all of Thursday ironing it out. If she were here, she would sew it for you, but you’ll leave the rip in place. Nobody can see it anyway.
Your fingers are long like a pianist’s, an art form all their own when they dance across the top of me, push the knob to the left and then I go quiet. Maybe she’ll come back, you’ll tell yourself. You scoop my contents out like a pumpkin at Halloween, but you like me better because I smell like her.
I am left hollow, used only to clean out the stains and soak through the fabric of your life without her.
Maybe we are not so different after all.
Tomorrow, I'll rotate, spin for eleven minutes and remind you that there are some things you can't wash out, and stains you wish had never left.
Created: Jul 21, 2010Document Media