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Soap in my Hair
If you think of a life with me, picture me with soap in my hair, bubbles lining the strands of my wet-with-sweat frizz.
Picture the tomato-sauce-stained plates with bits of pasta, scattered by the sink like the continents of the world when it should be just Pangea, one place, all neat.
Picture me holding the sponge, scrubbing the red out of the white plates we ate from.
I'll picture your arms wrapped around me, head resting on my shoulder, murmuring behind me that I smelled like sweat.
Picture me smiling at the honesty and then listen to me complain to you that we should get this done. WE.
I'll picture you rinsing after I told you to and I'll hear your whining about your tired arms and how you're impatient about feeling my lips on yours.
And then we hurry, we wash the dishes together and there is soap in my hair.
We wash our hands which go to each other's waist and then we pull closer and then your hand is on my face and the taste of your mouth is on my tongue.
And then we stop. We stare.
Picture that, PinkInk.
Let's do it again, Pinkink.
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