Gravity of Wet

Heavy fabric pulls the basket down,

every shirt clings like a second skin,

damp and dragging, stretching thin plastic.

Water drips slow, a soft slap on the floor,

pooling in the soles of shoes left near the door.

The smell is sharp, stale and sour,

a wet weight pressing into the bones.

Hands numb, aching from the pull,

a chain of dripping cloths

stretched tight between hope and gravity.

This wet heaviness

presses on the quiet,

a burden no one warned me I’d carry.