On the Nature of Happiness

I know happiness must taste different 
than the dry mouth of desperation. 
Some sweet concoction, dripping 
warm and golden on the tongue. 
Happiness must have a different forecast 

from the day's first fall of sadness. 
I believe happiness has a texture, 
not raised but smooth and slippery 
as Venetian glass. It seems that joy 
would logically create a vibrant, 

bubbling brew of voices and happenings, 
but in truth I believe it is a transparent, 
liquid legato of silence. That weightless, 
eerie quiet one experiences when 
she suddenly finds herself content 

within her own skin. Not needing anyone 
to make her feel complete or whole, 
knowing that inside her lies 
all the answers to all the questions 
she has ever asked, all the love 

and tenderness she has ever ached for. 
Perhaps a light lullaby of rain 
like the tinkling of piano keys 
against the echoes of tears which have 
finally cessated their song. Just perhaps, 

an impossibly faint, evanescent, 
effluent music, like the tugging 
of a smile at the corners or her mouth.