C – me, slumped over in bed,
       tousle-headed, still half-dreaming.
O – the yawn, long as it is wide,
       accompanied by copacetic stretches.
F – a familiar pose,  
       bent over my phone, browsing.
F – the faucet gushing,
       my toothpaste dislodged unceremoniously.
E – the stack of banana pancakes,
       doused in honey, decimated briskly.
E – the coffee maker beeps,
       the ****** to a routine morning.

I
smile when
she says she
loves me simply
because that is what
all mothers do. She nods,
indulgent, when I explain
that blood running in our veins like
a river and its tributary
can’t fathom the depth of her ocean heart
Her kindness, her patience, her forgiveness,
her pride and joy, her laughter, her tears,
her kisses, her embrace, her smell,
her strength, her sheer existence,
everything else unique
to her is the tree
under which I
take shelter;
I am
safe.

They said I blew
it out of proportion.
I was told to let it go
so I did the mature thing
and looped an uptight string  
around its neck, strangled
it in a vexed snaggle,
before setting it free
to float. I let it go;
(though, not really).

Good advice must be broken
into bite sized pieces
so as to avoid choking
on its well-meaning intent.

Now,
I carry it with me every day
but it is a weight off my shoulders.
They say it suits me.
I agree.
What a facetious accessory it is –  
maturity!

i am tired
not allowed to sleep yet
i must wait
and breathe
heavier every second
empty still
nothing to give
so much to steal
i will wait
unseeing eyes fixed
on the frozen hourglass
i will speak
of birds and sunrise
the relentless vice
of waking
i will wait
until i cannot anymore