Laundry
Do they notice? The Faces. Do the faces take note?
Trail after stream. Purple and blue, yellow and green.
Bruises in the morning, a cup of black coffee
Summoned from the whitest sheets
Stained from endless attempts to crack the walls
Between you and I. You and the faces
Into the most restless hour
Tormenting sugar cubes that can make a morning less bitter.
Sorrow drips from my palms, toppling across
A barrier to divide one ocean from another, each other
But why do you speak of me with sorrow
Look upon my bodies black and blue with such distain?
Yes, I bruise from attacks at concrete walls.
Coffe stains circling ancient words of devotion, ever mocking
melancholy.
Blotts of ink, a fountain pen's nauseated rebellion
Words scroll through the tip of me
tongue, pen, fingers, keys 
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