Flash by Mileva Anastasiadou
Happiness is
that afternoon we spent at home, that home that looked like a 90s Polaroid, that Polaroid you kept on that table, us laughing and kissing at the same time, that table with a bottle of wine on it, a bottle of wine and two glasses, those stemware glasses we used on special occasions, when we celebrated birthdays, promotions, anniversaries, and we were about to celebrate, but life happened, not that life we’d shared, that other life that ignored our plans, those plans we had already visualized, we’ll move but we’ll take the house with us, you joked, that house we’d spent years building, that house we’d soon sell, and I asked how, and you showed me the table, that large oval table made out of unevenly cut marble, that same old table with the Polaroid on it, that table with the photo of our lives, that photo you’d frame but never did, the table, you insisted, the table is all we need, and you winked, like I should have known the table represented us, we were old and solid and still standing, but I didn’t only want the table and you took a sip of wine and insisted that was a joke, so I laughed, for you wanted me happy, that laugh that brought me into your arms, those arms that seemed like wings, those wings that took me to heaven, that heavenly tune you played on your guitar, that tune that sounded like your heartbeat, that heavenly music that ended that afternoon, that afternoon before happiness jumped out the window, that window I should have closed, I tell myself, but happiness cannot be caged, that happiness that comes in bursts when I hear the music you played, that methadone tune that sounds better than nothing, that tune that has now taken the place of your heartbeat, that heartbeat I heard when I heard happiness. Happiness cannot be caged for long, except in tunes and pictures and photos, except in that Polaroid where you still laugh and kiss me and we glow, we glow, we glow. |