the sky weeps, its freshwater tears streaking my window-panes,
turning the world outside into a streaked, blurry mess.
I am sitting in a kitchen chair pulled close to the glass door,
sipping something sweet and listening to my Grease record.
the soft sounds of "blue moon" echo through the room,
and I look up at the ceiling, watching
- the cranes made from old cut-up tests that I strung from my ceiling twirling around,
propelled by the ceaseless spinning of the ceiling fan
- my two cats, curled around each other like yin and yang
- the heat emanating from my stove, where a loaf of bread is tucked in the oven,
rising, rising, and then ready to eat.
- the pictures that patchwork my walls, blanketing them
with a map of where I've been, where I am, and where I want to go.
looking across these images, alone in my own space,
makes me feel small, like a singular ant.
like a whisper of a cloud in an all-blue sky.
like a crumb on a white platter.
but it's a comfortable significance, like I have no obligations,
like today I have nothing to lose if I do nothing,
no one to disappoint.
who minds me, a singular person in a crowd?
I can simply sit, and appreciate the things around me,
and breathe, smile, laugh