What if
I told you the opposite of happiness
is not sadness, but fear?
Lean into it.
I’ll rest.
Wait for you
on the sofa
tattered, creased with dog hair
and the weight
of at least one small child
in dust.
Wait for you
on the porch,
blue paint chips
decorating the bottoms of my feet.
and
mosquitoes bored by
little ‘ol me
again.
Tell me
Tell me.
What is that you’re holding
between spleen and sternum—
in the place your secrets used
to rest, parallel
to mine?
In the darkness,
what unraveling have you
hidden?
Tell me, shameful little one.
Gratitude.
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