Every morning
before the sun stretches itself across my window,
before my coffee tastes like anything but bitter,
happiness hides.

She’s crouched behind the blinds,
folded into the corner of yesterday’s pillow,
laughing quietly at me
as if I don’t know how to look for her.

I try.

I try like I know her favorite hiding spots,
like I know the exact way she breathes when she’s shy,
like I can coax her out with half-empty mugs
and songs that smell like home.

But she moves.

Slips under the fridge,
slides into the cracks of my bathroom tiles,
hides in the sound of my keys clattering
like she’s daring me to follow.

So I do.

I follow.

And sometimes,
just sometimes,
she peeks out
like a shy smile from a stranger in a crowded street.

For that moment,
my chest remembers what it’s like to be full,
and I swear
I hear the echo of her saying,

you found me again.

Then she disappears.

And I swear I’ll find her tomorrow.

Because happiness
isn’t something that knocks politely.

It is a professional hide-and-seek champion,
undefeated for as long as I’ve known her.

And me?

I am the kid counting with my eyes closed,
hands over my face,
promising the dark that I’m still playing.

Every morning,

before the day can tell me who I need to be,

I start searching.

(c)BobChristian