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 coffeepot she rinsed the night before awaits her.
Her shiny blue mug reminds her of a night,
far back at a campsite where a prominent moon

and abundant, cheering stars illuminated the dark blue sky.
The light, beamed and shined, expanded like 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 defraud 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, salty
baths, and the weight of the wrinkly luggage of young sailors.