My iridescent bubble

These are such perfect alone days of contentment. I converse when I want to, I clam-up whenever I feel like. I'm  no longer good, no longer worried about being good. No pressure of trying to live up to an image that people conjure for me. I, somehow, could never live-up to anyone's expectations, I frequently disappoint. 


Perfect days of contentment,
stretch their legs in my chair,
and sleep in my bedroom.
While I watch, 
from another room.


We don't talk,
the days have their hours to keep,
I have some words.
To write,
from another room.


There are no curtains though,
I remember who wants them,
There are no sparrows too.
An empty room,
from another room.