She easily slips in beneath your covers,
Although you’d locked yourself up,
Blanketed yourself
To not fall prey to her…
Without approval,
She sweeps in like the soothing warm wind against your cold skin.
Titillating you.
And places herself cozily
Inside the auricles of your heart,
Interfering with the cadence of it’s beats.
But adamant,
She plants herself comfortably in,
Expands and grows with every passing second…
But
Her will,
Her own.
As swiftly and noticeably she enters
She leaves on no foretold day,
In a moment, touched.
In another, lost.
A gaping hole,
A burning void,
You know she’s hit you again…
She camouflages herself:
In the golden horizon at dawn,
Till she burns red and leaves again.
Yet you look forward to find her,
And this time,
She’s spread across the dark expanse of night,
In flickering lights below and above.
But she flies away,
With no promises of meeting again.
But then in one sparkling moment,
You see her smile,
In a human you just met.
She hides in covers of nostalgia at times,
Or in ephemeral moments sprinkled across the cosmic ocean.
She’s too clever.
Her will,
Her own.
As she leaves you aching,
By her untimely escape
And you know she’s hit you again.
Happiness,
In sporadic moments,
Moments that happen,
When least expected.
Its best to accept
As her will,
Her own.
Happiness: a warm gun.
