What a day of being married to myself is like
with my slow routine,
with my many half-finished projects in every corner of my apartment
My creative leisure time
My monologues out loud
Taking advice from the oracle
Dancing in the living room
Or in the kitchen
Or in the bathroom
Sleeping on the floor
Somedays, transplanting my little plants
and sone others my sadness
Existing between laughter and melancholy on the surface of my skin
Is there another way?

One more day with me
feeling sufficient in the home I have built
In this country,
in this body,
in this present

The commitment to my morning coffee
One Monday,
any given Sunday
of dreaming and living
a whole life with me.