Some wear their hearts on their sleeves -- I put mine in my pocket.

Always present, bulging underneath the fabric.

Harder to see, of course, than if it were on my sleeve,

But not too hard to distinguish either.

A bit of calm and patience could bring it out.

Even so, you wouldn’t empty out your pockets for just anyone, would you?

Because sleeves are more likely to unravel and get torn to shreds,

And mending it is a cost I cannot pay.

Contentment is a warm and cozy feeling of satisfaction. There is no fear or anxiety; just a steady flow of knowing that even though things aren’t perfect, it’s okay. Everything will be alright. Contentment is having a sense of stability in the back of your mind, always there to reassure. It is not a feeling of constant elation, but rather a reasonable appreciation for the things that you have, grateful for what you love. It is deeply present while sitting on the couch with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, taking comfort in the familiarity of your surroundings and knowing that a loved one is puttering around somewhere in the house. It is hearing your favorite music softly playing in the background and smelling hot soup boiling in the kitchen. Contentment is an internal sense of peace. And in some ways it is even better than extravagent joy, which always seems to be fleeting.

30 past 8 in the evening.

The mourning dove is mourning the death of her sun.

The other birds, lively as ever, oblivious, and uncaring as their world soon grows dark.

Voices come from faraway, talk of the weather and karate kid 2.

Peacocks cry in the distance, and some children join in their screams too.

Unyielding buzzing in low tones ooze out of the street light down the street, half-broken.

Cars come and the sound trickles away, like a highway house.

The noise and the quiet are in chorus together as the sun goes down.