The Blue Roses

What is happiness?                                                                                                                              

I'll tell you right now, I don't know what it is but I know what it isn't.

It isn't permanent.

It isn't the deep, musky, blue smell of him.

Well, you think that's what it is, anyways.

Until it isn't.

It isn't his hand softly, slowly reaching out to run his fingers down the very far side of your face. So softly you barely feel it. So softly you think you are imagining it until his hand quickly and heavily cups your soft, round, rose scented cheek.

I thought that could be it,

But it wasn't.

It isn't his words quietly whispering in your ear, telling you that you would be an amazing mother.

It couldn't be that, could it?

It isn't that deep, dark, glowing time of night when nothing can be wrong. The time of night when nothing exists except the goodness of you and him. Nothing is there except for that glowing perfection of what you feel.

That is not happiness.

Even though you think it is for the moment, allowing yourself to bask in the deep, blue, rose scented glow.

It is not happiness because you know it will end.

Maybe happiness is the moments you trick yourself into thinking it could be like this forever. Those perfect moments where you pretend it's right.

So perhaps happiness is pretending.