I fed my last euro to a washing machine
that shook like a drunk trying to remember a hymn.
Inside, my socks and one stained bedsheet
went round and round like a minor religion.
A woman folded tiny shirts with butcher’s hands.
Someone’s wet jeans slapped the glass
like they wanted out of this century.
The room smelled of soap, hot dust, and failure
with a lemon note almost brave enough to lie.
When the cycle finished, everything was clean
except the part of me that keeps receipts from old love.
I carried the warm bundle home in both arms
like a headless animal still trying to forgive me.