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If You Do Your Laundry in Tears
 

 

I don’t love you more than life itself
because you are my life.
 
you are not, also,
my life.
 
if I were to box you,
envelope you,
draw a boundary wall around you,
 
define or describe your existence
in either absence or presence
 
all will be lost, all will be gained.
 
(how the washing machine
fails to identify a dirty cloth from clean
and soaks them both equally
in its lava.)
 
I am at the center
of which you are concentric—
 
so much so
when I am, you are,
when I am not, you are not.