my days love to count themselves
on hands of a clock -
not time, not hours and minutes, no -
but the passing by of days
and running by of nights.

my days love to shapeshift
as i wake up -
from being nebulous cotton-candy noise,
to words that can broken down in
any given table or flowchart of your choice.

my days love starting with the very thought of beginnings.
what gives me strength is stacking up
on little, little tasks -
breathing too, becomes too big of an ask
if not jotted down before bright sunlight can attack me.

i love the idea of a routine,
to have a dedicated slate,
every day,
to wipe clean.
i love the comfort of knowing,
the idea of carefully sowing seeds
of whatever my body needs to do,
and my mind must dwell on.

my days, you see,
love being the last lines of colour
inside a drawing's border.
skipping beats is only useful to a heart in love,
the rest of my worlds demand law and order.