in these winter days,
i feel strangely nostalgic.
i think about her, i do
but it is with happiness
in my heart and, more importantly,
in my brain.

it's over,
the page is flipped
the world is spinning
and the poets keep writing.
they write about love and hate
and sadness and happiness so great
you feel you're floating and you'll never land
but that's okay because you feel safe

and i still miss her

i miss her with my every breath
i miss her with all my cells
i will miss her until the end of times

and i'm happy

i'm happy when i'm sad
i'm happy when memories of her
flood my veins and i feel as though
it will be too much and i will surely perish.

because, at the end of the day,
what is happiness?
it's a beautiful, unknown path to me

but i think that, perhaps, it is time
to get lost on it.