Litany to lint

After I washed your comforter in my new apartment: 

Have you ever cried over a lint ball. Gently stroking a dead mans hair. Moving it about to recall the kaleidoscope of colors that caught the sun. Dark brown, light brown, copper and grey. Did you recall tousled morning hair and chest hair between your fingers. Arm hair beneath your hand as you absently rubbed his forearm. A pubic hair perhaps pulled out during lovedmaking. Did you consider how you could maybe keep the thing. Seven months gone and you still have to fight the urge to steal away the most simple detritus. So you cry over a lint ball till you toss it in a strange trash an and go have a good cry.