Happy Poetry

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.