What Makes You Happiest

The epitaphs of youth are composed of brute threads and the names of our dead are accidents in the fabric, a coincidence of cross-stitched rivers we’ve bled. You always said I was rough around the edges, running headless through the night. But under the odd moonless starscape, fistfights with fate were inevitable.

You asked what makes me happiest,
I think it’s the stress,

not only of syllables but
scribbled down storybooks played
out in my head,

most with wretched endings.

Dependence on outcomes is
hopeless because the game is broken,
and you must find which winning
condition will
suit you best.

It’s the journey toward there,
educated guesses for
what constitutes North,
you may lose sight of clarity.

But never despair,
because even in the dark you’re
a force to be reckoned with,
the one strong
winds cannot keep down.

Dare I say, that bask makes me happiest,
escaping a nightmare to which
I’m no longer bound,
claws by my side and
feet on the ground,

the storm just
passing through.


5 thoughts on “What Makes You Happiest

    1. I probably used it wrong. Shortform for “basking”, as you would in the sun. Thanks for the heads up. Will edit. 🙂


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