Your happiness.

The happiness you hand out is fleeting. It feels plastic and mass-produced. Made in China. It is brittle and easily broken. So easily. It is transparent, and still would be even if there were depth to it at all. Thin and sticky as toffee, it clings and leaves a noticeable mark. A mark that stains. It leaves a taste in the mouth, sour and at times over-sweet. It is tinny and always stuck on repeat. One wonders if it ever was, is, or will be real...

Happiness. Joy. Pleasure. Cheer. Glee. Delight. Ecstasy.

A kiss.

Want to take your jaw into my hands,
And catch your breath between my teeth,
Make you open your mouth,
And let the words on the tip of my tongue,
Trace the shape of your lips.

Backseat.

You're the emptiness of the seat beside me.
An itch where my fingers grasp empty air.
The flash of a streetlight into shadow.
A yearning for something that just isn't there.