when it lies upon the ground,
spread lazily over cars and trees
and trampolines.
and i, in boots and a hand-made scarf
bound about like a puppy,
in the bright, light powder,
winter's sugar.
love is happiness
when you kiss a boy
on Valentine's and he whispers,
soft, barely audible, his moist breath
tickling the inside of my ear,
"i love you."
bad poetry is happiness
allowing me to release my all
onto the screen, so it no longer fills me
too full.
my magic pensieve.
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