Bliss

Happiness isn’t a perfect circle. It is drawn instead by a child’s hand, or my own. Serrated, crooked, uneven. It is the last piece of chocolate. Or the one that you’ve tasted yourself. It is a shared cup of tea. It is wine, from your lips.

Happiness isn’t ideal. It is a man who chooses to leave, a friend who disappears. It is pain that brings you to your knees and you can’t seem to find the strength to just stand.

Happiness is the look in your eyes. It is a double chocolate chip cookie. It is a sweet public kiss. It is a man in black boxer shorts.

Happiness is a glimpse of a loved face, an unexpected visit, the not knowing of anything. It is the music that streams into my ears as I mourn. And the music that makes me laugh out loud in sheer pleasure as I ride. It is an unexpected lunch. And receiving books in the mail.

My happiness is imperfect, but exists. It is splintered, diffused light, grey, sometimes monochromatic, sometimes just plain black. Or blue. But it is what it is, and, like me, it is needy and often but not constant.

And that’s okay too, I guess.