like my abuela taught me on early Sunday morning, I wash your clothes
your room fills with fresh scent of lavender, soft sheets, and tiny sun beams.
i take gently hold you like rose petal in my palms.
im so afraid the wind my rush through and blow you away.
what will i do when you’re gone?
who’s lips will feel like home?
who’s eyes would i melt in?
“i folded your clothes amor.. your work pants are hanging by your belt.”
i don’t know how to say this but i do by waking up on Sunday mornings to wash your clothes..
im scared to lose you..