Happiness is a warm, wool sweater                                    
One that varies in complexity and a cotton blend
Patchwork with scratchy threads,
A constant smell of buttery yellow
Warmth surrounds us
Blanketed in the bright orange sunset at Asylum Point,
With the radio whispering a love song,
Our hands wrapped around white mugs
Sharing a kiss or two.
Happiness isn't so much a sweater
More like a tattered piece of cloth,
Sewn back together with patches of jean.
I grew up in a rather unsecretive city, Oshkosh, with a cafe on the corner, the farmers market on Saturdays,
And an art supply store on the strip
It's crazy the way that everyone knows your deepest secrets,
How everyone knows what you did with that boy over the summer months and
How your reputation is polluted in a half of a second.
They all whisper in the distance,
And the butterfly of self confidence that I once had cocooned into the back of my brain
Until it was there in the dark so long that I used
The bright pink blush to bring color back into my life.
I, the talk of the town, would grow to sing again
Traveling back to Asylum,
A single passenger this time, seul
The contentedness shimmering in the reflection of the murky lake  
The baby pink cardigan that covered my arms, so light and airy,
Helped me drift in the wind,
Floating, light as a feather.
Goodbye, I told him, and he just smiled
The gentle touch of his hand fading,
Another patch on the sweater.