Sit here. Hear me out. No, I'm fine, thanks.
Don't you feel like poetry some days? When the moonlight paints over everything? Your every breath is art.
It's weird, I feel happy yet sad. I feel pain and am happy about it. I feel joy and am sad about it. Like any moment I could burst into laughter or tears.
Hold my hand, I'll walk you through it. Just us two.
No, I'm not drunk.
Somehow the world is in different colours, but everything is still so familiar. Familiar like your collarbones or the smell of cookies, but incompatible too.
No, don't interrupt, I don't need help.
It's only a surrealist's paradise. Everything ebbing away, yet getting clearer, less vague. I feel in love. Not with anyone. Just that happy feeling. Like everything is right in the world. That careless happiness tinged with sadness like an afterthought.
I know, I know, you say this feeling won't last. But look. I understand "fundamentally unhappy human being" all too well. You've pointed out yourself how I can be.
So on those rare occasions when I feel like poetry, like art, like music: please don't burst that bubble. My happiness comes in slivers like the crescent moon. And when I share that with you, I trust that when you hold my thin, fragile happiness in your hand, you won't snap it as you so easily could. I trust you to treat me gently. For poetry is fragile like that.