She complains about her routine as she clings to it,
moving through chores— early hours, as if treading
on fragile ground, she slips into the shower, then the kitchen
where the coffee pot rinsed the night before waits in silence.
Her shiny blue mug reminds her of a distant night,
at a campsite where a prominent moon
and cheering stars lit the deep-blue sky.
The light spread and shined, beaming like wildflowers.
Back to the cup, she sips, leans in, and feels excluded.
Her friends have side notes, hushed exchanges,
secondary bonds, secret addictions.
They shop around, gossip, practice yoga,
seek pleasure. They cheat time to forget the helpless now.
They stretch arms, lift chests, inhale desires,
and bathe in the forbidden— the tangled life.
She feels like a wrecked ship, exhausted from long voyages,
salted baths, and the weight of wrinkled luggage of young sailors.
