Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip.
It’s the way that trying something new doesn’t feel like a monster with you.
It's letting the world have me, arms open, falling. Without censorship.
It’s breathing into the world, past the artificial growth of moist woodchips,
And instead, to toppling trees and roaring forest fires that are sometimes considered overdue.
Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip.
Sometimes things have to die to be made anew. Like an eclipse.
That’s how it feels with you.
So new that I’m rhyming in my poetry. Like a horror story. . . without censorship.
Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip
Or a framed portrait of a happy ending, but drawn only in baby blue.
I’m holding the feeling on my chest and watching you cradle it like a silk slip
Or a baby birds nest. You might drop it
And if you did, I wouldn’t blame you.
That’s what unconditional feels like. Without censorship.
Mine turned yours, then turned sour, with every hour, spent split
And that empty void, of a screen, in between, everything you're deaf to.
The world gives me back, curled up and broken bit by bit.
Happiness is the touch of your fingertip on my bowed-out lip.