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A happy poem for a happy person. |
Who writes happy poetry? Who has the time, when days are gorged With giggles and smiles With nervous nail biting and compulsive hair twirling Who has the focus to—when one’s mind is constantly bouncing between clouds When one’s eyes are glazed, twinkling, daring to face anywhere but forward, Anywhere but reality. But I want to write you a poem. A happy poem. Because you make me so fucking happy. I want to write about your gentle freckles, The ones that flocked around your stony blue eyes But were paralyzed with one look About your red—rubicund, you’d say—lips And the paths they’ve traipsed over my body. About how—even without the mirror by my bed— I can tell how smoothly our bodies mold together In intimate moments I want to write about how you exude wholesomeness About how you take me home at 2 in the morning Wrapped in your jacket, with my head resting on your shoulder About how I know you like talking to me, cuddling with me As much—perhaps more—than making love to me. I want to tell you that I cannot stop thinking about you I cannot stop thinking about you I cannot. Stop. Thinking. About. You. That my mind sputters to a halt at the mere idea of you That every night I wish my sheets were your arms wrapped around me And more than anything I want to scream to the world that I Desperately Want to kiss you Right now. If only I could write a happy poem, Then I would write one for you. |