Happiness

I have come to realize that the most tender thing is not pain, but happiness. 

So random, so elusive, an intangible wisp in the void. 

I can't control how long it stays, before it 

leaves, like the foggy residue of a dream in the morning, 

reaching, grasping onto it 

but not quite. The more you think it, over-

think it, the faster it slips away, away, away.

Lana Del Rey was right. It's a butterfly,

impossible to catch with all the elbow grease and grimace

but maybe if you stop trying, maybe if you

hold your hand out and let the expectations fall away

it'll land on your tender

finger for a few seconds longer than the

last.

 

elise.writer

VT

15 years old

More by elise.writer

  • sunday nights

    sunday nights are my own.

    old music in the corners of my mind

    pen scratches on paper, ten thousand poems

    two hundred and seventy-two

    little golden lights, 4 walls

    that mirror my soul.

  • january to july

    in the months of darkness and cold, i never stopped writing.

    i just kept it all to myself. every night, my own religion

    pages of pen poised on paper, pouring my heart out