Happiness doesn’t write good poetry
is something I thought
once
when I was happy.
Pressing flowers between the pages
of a love that felt
like forget-me-nots
like it was the beginning
and the end
all at once
everyday.
It was —
How could I be with anyone else
tucking flowers behind your ears
when it felt nothing could touch us.
Was it a mistake, then,
to be happy?
Pressed flowers don’t last
is what you told me.
Featured image by Jaya Budhia.
