untitled

It is
the every day
quiet,
deceivingly ordinary,
drunk happiness
I wear,
when you,
wrap songs
of
moonshine
that begin to play
as singular notes,
from the soles of my feet,
slowly
twisting
into
melodies
that
sweep up
and
pass
my belly,
with the weight of feathers.
The laughter pools in my eyes
and settles
on the nape of my neck,
the bare skin,
usually covered
in unintentional
modesty.
I want to linger there
as long as I can,
open my eyes
and realize twenty minutes
have gone by
since I last noticed
where I was.