|The Architecture Of Happiness|
She builds houses.
Her spindley fingers tease blueprints from black ink,
designing future happy homes
for families we’d never know.
She murmurs nasal sounds,
pen dangling between the sticky skin of her lips,
pencil propping up impossible amounts of hair
as she sketches out plans
forages for flaws.
Desk light slices her features,
cutting shapes from her face,
a desk-bound Picasso.
Frown lines forged by concentration
sit like equal signs between her arching eyebrows.
She moves gently over expanses of white,
angling the paper with purposeful lines
and I watch from under her bed covers
as her eyes that fire focus at endless work
lose their clarity when she glances over,
finds a half-smile somewhere
delivers it without taking her mind from the drawing board.
She can never converse like she can construct
but in silence I still try to build us
while she piles up bricks
but burns our bridges.
Now her hands move silently back
her eyes re-focus, look down
and she is lost again in the self-made corridors
of all the towers of her mind
while I settle back and watch the architect of my days
design other people’s happiness.
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