The Bubble of Joy

Happiness is a sacred commodity. I see it in the adrupt grin, read it in the lines framing it, hear it in the burst of lazy, musical, unafraid laughter ringing through the air.
I can’t help it as a corner of my lips turn up twitching in its memory. I want to dedicate a shrine to the boundless, bold joy.
I also want to steal it, grab it or inhale it and lodge it in my lungs. The bubble of relentless ripples of uninhibited mirth will now be mine.
Do amusements and glee come with adresses? Are they meant just for one but not the other,
Would being in a foreign body nullify, dull or snuff them out?
I don’t know what to do momentarily with the preciousness in my hand. Would I kill it? Should I save it by returning it to someone who knows how to care?
But no, as I stare down at it, in all its scare marvellous glory, I feel a thread of happy escape my lips. There’s double now, nothing to be stolen; just enough.

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