Gathering up white sheets, stooping down to pick up the corners and place into metallic basket. Similarly, I will gather up my love for you and attempt to place it in a container where I will then transport it safety, and fold it up all pretty-like so it may remain in my heart. Warm dryer cycle. Dampness removed. Cool, summer evening lakeside holding hands under a blanket, overlooking a fire. I, in this oversized sweatshirt that makes me look more cute than anything, this is comfort that transcends words and is beyond the concept of every day reality. All our lives we will be reminded of moments we can never have back. One might argue, what good is a time machine if won't make a difference? But I think the memories are time machines with the holographic safeties turned on. Privilege and access is a class issue, is a race issue. These things have been Snow White and Animals, swept under the rug, dust to be unearthed when a curious child pulls back the fold, either that or what the house comes down. How many years in the woods with no maintenance? The dwarves are dead now. Or the realm in which they in habit is like timeless realm, untouched by Muggle hands. Hugging the laundry closer to me. It smells like clean rain and lavender promises. I want to wrap myself up in its warmth, and returned womb-like back to the floor. To melt, and dream. Timebomb ticking, unnerved energy.