I feed the midnight Laundromat quarters
at the abject carnival swirling
of my clothes
without your clothes.
Feel the moisture in the room,
return to the pages of this text.
Tendrils of sweat and overexposed flesh
glowing in the overheads.
I always knew you’d move to Toronto
to become famous and tortured
and sell our stories
in the moving picture shows.
We continue to insist
there are dreams inside this vortex.
Before this becomes reality,
you demand a sacrifice:
My school nights
that nothing is more real than this.
Feel the tension of brinkmanship
as you challenge me to leave behind my texts and treatises
and I defy you to lay down your camera
and speak this face to face.
I feed the midnight Laundromat quarters,
deface more texts with my highlighter,
and revel in the cascade of my clothing
without your clothing
in the dryer.
© Elyse Mitchell 2012