it arrived on the doorstep this morning

the clothes I kept at his place
spilling out of his old
gym bag,
reeking of
tobacco ash.
my body and mind have been
sorting through it
as a team
separating
colors, darks, whites
while my heart runs
past me
back to those
apartment nights.

and I taste the cigarettes
on the floor of the balcony with our
legs dangling in the air,
in the kitchen frying pasta,
in the bedroom
ashes sprinkled on
velour, on skin,
in the beer,
in the ashtrays that
made this laundry so
*****.

i taste the cigarettes,
and indulge
their flavor
until I remember the
other girl and
know for certain
he must have shared
cigarettes with her too

my ***** laundry
as a helpless witness
on the floor.