I promise I will wash them. But not yet.

How strange, the recurring cotton under my fingertips, how well acquainted I am with the strange stain in the corner. My bedsheets are my home. I’ve decided I will die here, but in no somber way, I’ll lay contemplating memories, wrapped subtly in brushed cotton.

You lay here once.

Only once though. A simple night of fiendish glory, we danced, we cooked, we sang.

I wonder if you remember this night as well as I, the memories wind themselves into this threadbare blanket, and floral patterns tell stories of past familiars.

They're dirty now, these bedsheets. I’m looking at them right now and they are dirty. How silly. How vile. I promised you that I would move from this bed and douse the fibers in cleansing soap, that I would sit cross-legged in front of the machine, watching the water spin around, and around, and around.  I would hang them out to dry, letting the wind dance facility around the blankets, freshening old morsels of coffee, toast crumbs, and who knows what else. But I don't tend to keep my promises these days.

I struggle to see the point. In washing my bedsheets that is.

Because you can't wash away memories, can you?

How nice if you could.

India Hanlon