Dear happiness, it’s me again.
You don’t come round nearly enough.
I’m right where you left me last time – by the door, my ears perked like a dog’s
for the rap of your knuckles on the wood.
More often I tasted your knuckles in my mouth.
At times you were more like blood and spit
than honey and sugar water.
It doesn’t stop me from mourning you
like a miscarried child,
and waiting for your face to appear
like an apparition in my window.
I lost you too early, and too young.
Sometimes I think I am bound to you
the way a neck is bound to a noose –
or is it an umbilical cord?
You tell me.
Am I clutching a lifeline,
are you guiding me like Ariadne through the labyrinth?
Some days I don’t know whether to follow the trail of breadcrumbs
or crumble to the floor myself.
Oh happiness, I know we had our bad times
but there’s room for you in my body now.
Trouble is, I don’t know where you’ve been these days.
I couldn’t pick you out in a sea of faces
so what name, then, do I give to this hollowness
in my belly?
What name, then, do I engrave on the tombstone
at which I am now kneeling?