Nina Simone on the record player
Soft white goose down comforters cold against my flesh
With morning light peaking through the blinds,
Beads of dew settling on blades of grass reflecting a hundred little prisms on my bare feet,
Yes that’s perfection,
But most mornings are similar to a broken pyramid.
It looks and feels beautiful, but a little more effort to hold,
And little more strength to carry me through.