It is 46 minutes past 9, I’ve just woken up, and
The miniscule embrace of dry clothes on a clothesline, wild for gentle breeze
sweeps me with the 14th thought of “will I ever be able to make it big”
In the past 48 hours, and then I go brush my teeth.
Moments of self doubt probably wriggle up my sleeves
When I collect them a centimeter from my elbows
Before detangling all hushed out, dilemmatic, emotion
With double ply tissue paper and a blank word document,
And whisper sweet nothings in my ears in the few minutes I spend in
Only subtle existence – “You’re nothing, my darling, and nothing you will always be”.
I accept it for meditation.
Questions have choruses when they escape from amidst the polishing
Of Jupiter Red luxury cars, fluttering of the fancy paper of
Wedding cards with pastel aesthetic, and the jerk of a double breasted blazer
On a crisp white shirt, until I sing along but only in deranged melody,
And the opera plays in my head in concentric circles.
I read affinity displayed for me in little gestures, and it occurs to me that
When even time is a construct of human imagination,
What makes you think your love for me isn’t?
But then little thoughts make me laugh and in the bitter aches
Of lacked oxygen, I realize that there is no Big in the universe, just a splendid
Amount of Biggers, and sometimes,
Being just Big is big enough.