And there are days when I choose to be naive,
And there are days I choose not to open up with many or any,
And there are days I need no cushions to absorb my tears, blurred vision, smudged Kajal, swollen eyes it’s ok.
Then there are days when I choose to be melancholy, Melancholy leads me to obscure, obscure leads me to questions, questions to redemption , redemption to solace , and solace back to melancholy. Melancholy is always a medicine to mind.
Then there are days when I fall in love,
Almost with everything, lost and and found , here and there. Just!
Days when I can be romantic about anything,
wrinkles , crinkles , opaque clarity, clearly dubious , extremes, misfits , worn out sweaters and empty lipsticks, chirped lips and crooked teeth, smiles so wild and tears so sour.
There are days when I am less of woman and more of human and less of skin but more of bones,
And there are days when I mother without a child, a husband without a wife, a book all blank, angry without a slang.
Sometimes I believe in quantum so much so that become one, you can’t ever predict my position as I am not just in duality, I am in multitudes, a multiplying multiverse, an atom in search of neutron, catastrophe of sublime thoughts.
Sometimes the only way to me is through words.
And there are 365 days in an year and 365 me living each hour differently so don’t judge me for one day we met or exchanged our tounges .