happiness is mad at me because i don’t write about her more often
she shows up at 1:28am and hugs me tight like my mom does once in a blue moon
she looks the same as always but my life doesn’t
i would have shoved all my poems adressed to misery into the drawer if i’d known she is visiting
“it’s okay” she said
“i’m used to the stale stench of heartbreak and anxiety lingering in your bedroom”
she’s lying
i know she’s lying and she knows that i know
she takes her usual spot on my bed
“you should think of me more often” she tells me
she concludes that she is after all a state of mind
in turn, i tell her that hanging out with friends and forgiving my mom don’t exactly work
“you just need to think of me more often”
i tell her i do think of her; when the sky is pretty or the food is good
i think of her between the lines of my favorite songs and each strokes of my favorite paintings
not looking convinced, she glances and says
“why don’t you write about me?”

i don’t know the answer

i want to tell her
i see your face amongst picture of my friends and i;
i see you in my daily glass of tea;
i see you all the time and i try to write about you all the time
but i don’t say anything because i already know the answer
she gets up to leave and i ask her to stay
she tells me she’ll try and visit again
“think of me more often, think of me as if i’ve never left
think of me, write about me
but don’t think that you’ll find me and don’t expect me to stay”
  
i want to send this to her
but she hates it when i try to reach her and i don’t know her address
but then again, it’s not like she has a permanent residence