I started my morning with coconut macaroons and
after having spent the first two hours upon waking
laying in bed, writing down my dream
about finding a small book filled with polaroids of my son
when he was young,
and the people surrounding our lives at that time who loved him.
I then lay back again
and continued reading a memoir by Lena Dunham.
While I stood waiting for the kettle to boil,
eating the second macaroon –
the last in the package –
I thought, sometimes life is perfect.
Nevermind the reason I lay in bed so long
was because I felt pinned there by a clinging virus;
Nevermind writing the dream kinked my neck
in a way I couldn’t rub away, even hours later;
and in the dream – I was still waiting to forget this part –
my physical son was nowhere to be found.
Only fading, years-old polaroids of him.
Nevermind the only reason I ate macaroons
was to recycle their packaging,
and I felt obligated not to waste them, even though
I hate eating sweet things,
especially first thing in the morning.
Nevermind all of that.
Sometimes the effects are better than the causes.
And the music was loud enough
to send everything else into a slow fade.
Sometimes life is perfect.
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