Cinderella?

All my chores
are fairy lights.
I wash and
hang old clothes
upon the wire
where birds sing.
The clouds gather
slow and low.
Rain streams down
all over them.
Their colours drain
softly away, dripping
like a slow waltz.
Down the gutter,
suds of soap
tufts of dream.
The colour of
Your sound spills
on my skin.
Almost like bruises,
beautiful midnight blue.
Wasn't that the colour
of Cinderella's gown too?
I did not lose
my shoe.
You did not come
looking for me.