A Closed Letter

To happiness,
or whom it may concern.
I don't think I'd recognize you
at first.
Sparkling, transfixed
inside me.
I'd wonder how you
didn't clutch guilt like a
sparrow in the spring.
Would you be like they say,
the ones with smiles?
Could you be so easy to kiss?
To lick like a paintbrush?
Sometimes, I think, I regret
the break up. As though I'm sorry for broken
wills and iron bloodlust.
But more often, I
imagine how you feel in my clothes.
So when did our ambition grow eyes?
The way you used to remind me that
breath and believe both started with
letting go.