Since I met you.
The banging in my head and chest
Has all but quieted.
Love, home, dog, friends.
I am as full as I have ever been.
Why then
From time to time
Am I so frightened
By my own contentedness?
Do I worry now that the teenage angst,
That the confusion of my twenties
Was the most interesting I will be,
That now I am enamored by bathroom décor
And kitchen appliances?
How can my heart be so full,
But the pages be so empty?
Was I simply using
The emotions others gave me
To fill up pages in notebooks?
Was any of it real?
Was any of it mine?
Is this happiness?