~forty Degrees Needed But Only Cold Allowed~

I sat amongst The Beatles pining for a “Yesterday”, idly picking at leftover scabs dried to kitchen table. Wondering if, unlike me, my jeans had legs wrapped around your shorts, tumbling in wet ecstasy but contemplating when cycle would be complete. -whether the spin would be enough- and I suppose like that machine, I ran each day through the mechanics of my worth, whether aspirations were set to economy or left to ponder in a hard soak, just to eradicate those guilty stains, the ones you tried to hide beneath all our other dirty linen. I knew the line was broadcasting daily bulletins across slated fences, how the lingerie had left home, been replaced by sensible attire or just left lying, in punishment beneath cotton comforts. Maybe the centred cold divide of our bed could be warmed, if our spines were separated, if only hardness was elsewhere but your eyes.