On her bed she sits,
And writes of all her happy places,
Where she’s going and where she’s been,
To quiet, meditative mornings,
To sipping smooth, hot coffee,
Wearing soft and simple clothes,
To having endless conversations,
About all the things that matter,
And none of the things that don’t,
To laughing til her belly aches,
Wearing fuzzy socks,
and watching snow flurries out her window,
Her hair curled and her nails pearled,
Reminiscing about serendipitous moments,
That are not coincidental you know,
To reading books in bed,
To playing air hockey for hours,
Loving her scented lotion,
Admiring hearts that remain open,
She has skin that glows,
and friends that keep her on her toes,
Going on trampoline dates where she jumped so high she was bound to fall hard for him,
Writing words that slip so easily from pen to page that they seem to be writing themselves,
like Hemingway said,
just sit down and let your heart bleed,
she does,
hearing the sound of waves crash at the ocean,
Listening to songs that make her spirit sing,
Songs that make her soul dance,
To dancing the night away in a bar,
Or under the stars,
the rainbows and clouds in the skies,
She sighs,
these are her happy places,
moments where she feels like she can fly.
