On a Perfect Day

Words pass through my head like lines in a poem.

Beams of the young sun stretch

through my blinds and tickle the

wrinkled and pale duvet.

Last night’s Fleetwood Mac record

still spins, rested on one ceaseless note.

Fingertips uncurl and eyes flutter to

the stuttering rhythm.

The sunrise paints a picture on my skin.

Drops of pink and yellow

drip down and around my cheekbones.

An earl grey bag soaks and the

steam dances out of my mug and

kisses the crevices on my face,

filling each pore with lines of poetry.