I like my days melancholy. But beautifully so. When the sky is grey, with the few solitary raindrops. I stand at the sink, in the fading sunlight, washing my two navy dresses. A soft old jazz piece plays on the radio, I turn the fabric over in my hands. Scrubbing between buttons and seams, washing the remnants of church services, a job interview, presentations down the rusting drain. I dunk a lace collar into the water it comes up dark, black, heavy as though someone has dipped it in tar. It's delicacy is gone, but it's spaces seemingly filled. I stretch it across my palm, black against alabaster. The emptiness is here, today, as it is in all days, but for a few moments, it feels filled.