finally - the luxury is mine/

of a chair that’s comfortable and threadworn and not-terribly-unpretty/

well. most of the time. it’s mine.

the luxury of a/

single/

vintage/

table, with a designer’s hand-stamp,

and a secret drawer to keep secrets in/

(gifted, of course.)

a blanket-throw that’s colorful like me/

that nobody else lays claim to/

(bought on sale, of course.)

is there space for me?

finally -

to have the luxury of a room where i don’t have to compromise/

where i can see my books on the shelves/

steady + stable/

surrounding + grounding me,

walls of wisdom/

insulating me from soundwaves of tyranny/

the feng shui flow of my plants, my altar/

the way the evening sunlight shines thru this pink glass piece/

(gifted, of course)

infusing the space with heart-chakra glow.

that luxury is only for me,

because only i notice.

to expect these things must be decadent, and not mundane, because i find they’re the first casualties when anything must change.

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