Happiness

She's comfortable in silence, making no demands nor declarations. Her silence holds dignity, the kind which carries intent. She bathes you in sunlight and brushes your hair with gusts of wind. She lives in a home made from gentle words, reverent gestures, and sings lullabies of lovers' heartbeats. She requires no sash nor ribbon and she has no expectations. She once lay at your bedside, tugging at the hem of your sleeve. Yet, you were too busy complaining of sharp sunlight piercing through rainy clouds to realize the storm had already passed. Regardless, she still cushioned you in arms of feather, threading her fingers through the knots of your worries. Happiness wears no sequined hat, scatters no confetti, she makes no demands for celebration. All she asks for, steadily, is you and your willingness. And, when you are willing, she does not rush in with triumph. Instead, like a tide returning to shore, she moves with the grace of something which has always belonged. She slips into the pauses—between breaths and overlooked spaces of light. She settles beside you, she no longer has to tug. She reminds you that the world has never stopped offering you its softness, you only forgot how to recognize it.