Sonnet 19 'How Strange It's Hard For Me To Wash Your Clothes'
“How Strange… it’s Hard for me to wash your clothes:
They will be put away for the last time…
They’ve stayed ten months in small piles, and, who knows?
They won’t be done, before I write this rhyme…”
I can’t give up her coat – she will be cold…
I can’t give up her jeans – what will she wear?
I can’t give her good care, and I can’t hold
Her… “Would you stay a little while? Your hair…
I miss the scent, when I would press my face
Against your sleeping shoulder, lie in bliss…
And now, one lock of hair, now empty space
On your side of the bed. I think I miss
You… O! The Travesty! Love – come to this!
But no, Love Lives! It’s the small things, like your kiss…”
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