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Inhale MAG
Oh, the smell of your skin,
how it reminded me
of just-dried laundry
freshly dancing in the summer breeze.
In winter, I would catch you
straight from my dryer
and rush my toasty shirts right up to the nose,
loving the subtle pulse of heat on my skin.
Alas! How I wished you were always there with me!
Though now, it only rains.
The sheets droop in sorrow on the line,
as mold infests their insides.
The dryer has combusted from overuse
and abuse.
My dress lies in a messy, wet ball on the tile floor.
The detergent isn't on sale, anyway.
It probably never will be again.
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