The peach pink clouds lying across the day’s new blue
are the clothes we washed together last night—
one load, button downs and my green dress.
They smell like that lemony detergent
you pulled down, white sides slick with soap.
I pretend that they smell like you.
Where they touch me, you touch me.
And now, at sunrise, they’re hanging in the sky—
whites stained soft pink by your new red shirt
and I can hardly bear to look up.
