We are mismatched
like the socks that come out of the dryer
One gray with red spots
The other blue with pink.

I feel that we must, somehow,
go together because
after all we are both socks.

Maybe it’s just some static cling
but somehow I have gotten myself
******* in you,
and you are ******* in me.

Wool socks are very bad at letting go.
They are hard to take off the foot,
and placed in the washer,
and then be found again,
and put through the dryer,
then found again.

Somehow we where put together.
It’s as if the house wife knotted us
on purpose because deep down
she really misses being a kid,
and wearing
mismatched socks.