My days

I pop the sharpie top open and draw through the 9

solid black lines that intersect to create some 31 odd squares stare at me

a background of large empty white space

the numbers inside hiding payment plans, coffee stains, anxiety attacks, and bus rides

when did days become a repeating diary of aching feet under a desk too small for lanky bodies 

and a washing machine tousling a ranch stained uniform for the night shift

 

as I watch the water kiss the collar I feel so tired

i am drained

like every drop of liquid ringed out of a rag and left outside in dry air on a line

like the line that people seem to exist on

the timeline

where mornings, afternoons, and nights combine in a concentration of tasteless ingredients

languid tongues tasting little spice, speaking little life

 

I wonder: when did I start to feel so empty by routines that drive dreams to the outer banks of my heart and carve a place in my soul

where a hamster wheel sits

where I have made my home within its confines, counting how many times it circles around

 

when I get dizzy from moving I pop an Advil or 3 and click the sharpie back into place and dream in my head things that only make sense in my head

like sing-song patterns of wishes and taking back the dream

        

I think:

 

I want to gather 500 leaves just to fall in them and hear them crunch and be encompassed in a blanket of orange and red  

I want to stop inhaling and start tasting the food that travels down my throat

with some other purpose than just to make me full

I want to drink red wine weekly on soft white sheets with someone I love

both our clothes dripping wet from getting caught in the rain but not rushing home

I want to see without glazed eyes

touch with stronger fingertips

and kiss with deeper passion than one human tongue can hold

I want to feel the heaviness of my eyelashes coated with mascara

and press the color on my lips, “raisin rage,” together as I walk down the street

my hands outstretched towards the cool breeze bouncing off the buildings, alone but not lonely

 

 

this isn’t cliché language, a “living life to the full” emblem

as if “full” means good and good represents all our days

 

 

but days can be more than hours and months and years and I want to breathe my breaths with life over instinct

sweetness over survival

and count every one and not the circles

because there will always be circles and squares and white space

but there will not always be time and rainbow pigment to color with inside the lines

or someone to make sure you don’t miss a spot