Who’s to say what happiness is?
I could never have predicted (despite all the predictions I made)
that you would be so close.
That you would nestle – like the word last read in a half-read sentence-
deeply, firmly, lightly embedded.
I play with chopping blocks,
and fixatives.
With resin.
Bloody hearts may lie strewn across my spotless white bench.
It gives off the faintest smell of formaldehyde
(-makes me light headed sometimes,
but nothing to compare with – no matter, that’s sop.)
And who’s to say that happiness cannot be found
In the rustle, as pages brush their bodies against each other for a moment,
In the middle of a story-
About October telling stories,
As February-fussy, timid- sulks,
and April sucks her dainty fingers clear of innards,
while May takes her side.
And I, I dream at the back of my mind,
About a wondrous, terrifying August.
On an evening, where the skeletons of trees look in through my window,
as I sit inhaling the hot breath of my brown-slatted-heater.
Fingers stained with chocolate that arrived in the mail today
(near a month too late).
Bearing solemn, sincere advice on a background of blue,
it brought with it the hope of a new year.
I listen to a pink moon sing,
And curl up by my heap of warm, fresh, laundry.
Who would have known that we would come to know
each other, from half a world away.
Through tangles of invisible wires,
and calling plans that rob us blind.
Who’s to know that happiness lies here?
In fragile things.
