I had been trying to write his happiness for a long time.
It began like a love story that snaked through a dark woods,
and didn’t have an ending. I wanted to write him some comfort, create
a gentle creature to nestle into his shoulder and bring color to his cheeks.
The words did not come easily. In fact, joyful words are hard to catch.
Most of them slipped through my hands and soared right out the window,
no doubt in search of a more suitable home. The gloomy words, though,
clung to my ankles. I tried to brush them off when I remembered. I worked hard.
I presented him the manuscript. My lungs froze in a tight stitch at his scowl.
He said, “This is not my happiness.” He cast the papers to the ground.
I grabbed for my words as the rain began to turn them gray. He walked away.
Emotions bled into my hands, staining my shirtsleeves. It was my own happiness.