Indigo Stain

The thrift store rack was a wall of rough blue

where I found the heavy weight of it.

I rubbed the denim, thinking of you

and the way we used to fit.

Now I’m in the laundromat light

watching my suit spin round.

My cuticles are stained tonight

with a dye that can't be found.

It’s a coarse, unyielding thread

that won’t soften in the wash.

Like the things we never said

and the pride we couldn’t squash.