Thread: Perfect Days

Perfect Days

These are my days.

A gray sky with a smile full of diamonds
cheerfully flooding the streets,
beaming down on my unkempt hair
as I run into the store for milk, honey,
and tea.
Back upstairs, behind the lock,
I kick off my shoes and wiggle out of the clothes
that are unnecessary in my world.
My things all over, books here on the ottoman,
a half-watched movie there in the kitchen,
the morning's coffee mug sitting
(quite appropriately)
on the coffetable, mostly finished.
I should clean, at least tidy up,
at the very least put the laundry in the closet, but then...
it might not feel right, it might not feel like mine
when all the traces of me are neatly put away.
So instead, I make a quick lunch from the cartons
of last night's quick dinner,
grab the closest volume I've yet to finish,
and try not to dirty the pages.
Unashamed, I laugh out loud when it suits me,
and sniffle a bit if needed.
I feel like writing, like the books and the rain
and the mess have been my muses,
and I couldn't ignore their voices even if I wanted to.
Off with the lights, up with the music,
on with the computer and away with my thoughts,
unencumbered and uninterrupted.
These are my days,
the way I've chosen to live them.
And knowing that they're mine,
even when the chill sets in and my blankets aren't enough
to keep me warm,
even when I agonize over where the hell I'm going to find the cash
for rent and groceries,
even when I think how selfish I am for not wanting
the old days and and all that those days promised,
is what makes them perfect days.

These are my days.

********************************

I'm not really sure why I wanted to write this, maybe a sort of self-assurance that my life really is the way I want it to be, that the choices I've made have been the right ones, that I'm honestly okay (dare I say even happy) with things the way they are. Or maybe I was just bored. Whatever.