water freshly boiled
stiff neck all crunchy in the morning
long pour of black tea.

my eyes are level with the man
sitting on the shelf.

why do
these circles originate and radiate
in all the colors of my existence?

nowhere to rest, only a sweet sweet illusion
of ground to stand on... if
I stretch the little flying carpet of my life
just right, I can pause
and start with loving myself.