Most days I imagine I will be happy
Someday
In another pocket of time
Where days radiate with warm sun
Where mornings bring shimmering hope and the promise of a new day
But other days I imagine
That even the sharpest sense of a purpose
Will simply not be enough
To coax me from disappearing
Into the gaping hole in my chest
That consumes everything in sight
In search
Of something
I imagine
That my lover will bore me
That I will untangle myself slowly
Annoyed
By too warm embraces
needing to breathe the cool air
My only reprieve
From a perfectly curated treasure chest of suffocating
Happiness
That I cannot wait to hold
and send 