permanent press

this is how i hold onto you:

ankle socks, a baseball cap,

your ball state crewneck draped

over my skin so that i am a ghost

of you. i look in the mirror

and see pockets, seams

fraying, edges stitched inside-out

because i've never patched exit wounds

in my gums, i've never bound

my body without a handyman's help. 

the new cotton doesn't hold me

like you did. it stuffs my scars

but stifles sparks. i felt more comfortable

dressed in static. i miss

the electricity between us,

days spent waiting to be ironed

so we could rid ourselves of our wrinkles

and sort the good days from the bad

like bath towels from rags. i wish

we could love like we do laundry,

forgive, rinse, and repeat. i wish

the thumps of the washer were your heartbeat.