Wash it away,

the dirt, the doubt, the memory stains,

let the water run over yesterday’s echoes,

watch them swirl, slip, dissolve.

Scrub the fingerprints from the glass,

wipe the history from your hands,

start fresh

like it never happened,

like it never touched you,

like the past was just a dream

you woke up from too late.

Soap bubbles rise like tiny prayers,

floating up, bursting, gone,

silent absolution in foam and scent,

citrus, lavender, bleach,

pick your potion, pick your poison.

Rinse it off,

spit it out,

burn it down if you have to.

But tell me...

does clean mean pure?

Does pure mean whole?

Or does it just mean empty?