Happy Place

When I can't trace my feet to the places that made me happy I would think of you, I would see you; a bag of beautiful mischief, a gentle full moon bringing light to my darkness and in that moment I would travel every road I wish we traveled together till I remember to smile, till my eyes carry a picture of you, that anyone who looks at me closely enough would find you as the reason for my Happy.

When I can't trace my thoughts to the places that made me happy, I would think about my hand reaching for your face, cupping it in my hands and remembering why I chose you, I'll remember my hand racing through your hair, ruffling it, while I listened to you whine about how you had just fixed it. 

When I can't trace my thoughts to the places that made me happy, I would remember the nights I sat and listened to you talk about how work was stressful and how you needed to get a project done and your colleagues were been unreasonable, how I would smile and reassure you everything was going to be just fine, of how I made fun of my jobless self and told you I would give anything to have unreasonable colleagues and how you would laugh at me.

When I can't trace my thoughts to the places that made me happy, I'll trace my thoughts to my eyes boring into you late into the night whilst I watched you work on your canvas, painting a picture for your art sale. I'll remember running my hands down your back and smiling, knowing fully well that anyone who looked at me closely enough would find you as the reason for my Happy.