You want to be happy.

You will mew
and ask innocuous questions
and take a kind of step
into a blue light
that distorts you,
makes all your movements
fluid and enticing
and you will grin
and I will not see it
but I will know that you are grinning anyway

and it will be as if we
are drinking each other’s lives
on this dance floor.

You want to be happy.

I will be staring outside
on a bench
while libidos are thumping inside
and ever red light I see
is something I wish to pull toward me

and every blue light I see
is something I want to pull myself toward

and it will be so hilariously ironic
what you are bathing in

but you will never understand.

I will stay quiet.
I may or may not avert my gaze
and sip some sombre soma of a kind
in peace
looking into its red-to-pink with icebergs dancing
to keep its holy water cold

as you trade each other gingerly
in the open.

You want to be happy.

I couldn’t possibly begrudge you that.

And every blue light I see
is something I want to pull myself toward.

Maybe some people trade questions for
happiness

and some other people trade happiness
for answers.