My happy is something unknowable until it creeps in

without saying hello

It is my best days,

and sickly sweet nostalgic flashes

it’s when my girlfriend is kissing me and I’m too warm and

tender

under the weight of her lips, 

And when I’m swaying with her to 52nd Street,

It is when I’m me:

reading, or talking, but being

the me that is hard to find.

My happy is so hidden,

when I crave it, when I think of it,

it goes missing, like 

the last spoon of honey in the bear.

It is what I’m trying so hard to have

when I spiral under my showerhead and

comb too hard, when my back dries and itches from the water,

I can’t reach it! I can never

quite hit that high, chubby-baby faced laughing

 in my own silly world.

My happy is when I am not thinking.

Maybe it’s a dream.