She complains about her routine
as she clings to it,
doing tasks on autopilot —
early mornings, as if walking on eggshells,
she slips into the shower, then the kitchen
where the coffee pot she rinsed the night before
Her shiny blue mug
reminds her of a night,
far back at a campsite,
its dark blue sky illuminated
by a prominent moon
and abundant, cheering stars.
The light, beamed and shared, reigned
like monochromatic fireworks.
Back to the coffee cup: she takes a sip,
zooms in; feels left out.
Her friends have side notes,
hushed discussions, secondary acquaintances,
secret addictions. Quintessentially,
they shop around, gossip, do yoga, seek pleasure.
They cheat time to forget a helpless present.
They extend and stretch arms, push up chests, inhale desires,
and soak in the forbidden — the messy.
She feels like a shipwreck,
exhausted from long voyages,
and the weight of the wrinkly luggage of young sailors.