Happiness piques interest.
When happiness peaks it is
always nervous,
treading blindly,
violently
joyfully spinning and shaking my hair.
Liquids pouring in and out,
steadily.

Ripping, interdependent happiness
worse and better than solo sadness,
calling out or whispering,
strategically,
Admit that I exist. Admit that I existed!

Heaven is anticipation.
The edge of coming--always.
Heaven is walking out and into the clearing,
about to dance, the most primal dance.
About to eat, the most satisfying meal.

Culmination, the foreplay before death, is life.
Mortality arouses me,
viciously.
It blinds me, then allows me to see.
Pulls the covers on top of me.
Alive and gyrating on air
with isolation or autonomy,
happiness is coming all over me.