Therapy

She said it

as if it were

easy,

"Just hold

that happy thought,

Peter."

As if

my thoughts

were tangible.

I could not grasp

my happiness

in the palm of my hand,

could not twist it

between my fingers.

My thoughts

were droplets of rain,

sometimes a fine mist

that clung

to the edges

of my brain,

sometimes a

downpour

that an umbrella

could not stop.

She told me

to hold on

to happiness,

but I cannot grip the rain,

cannot control

its coming and going.

All it does

is soak through

the soles of my shoes

and collect

in my feet

until walking

becomes a chore

and my teeth

chatter

with nonsensical words.

The rain stays

in all the wrong ways.

She told me

to hold on

to this little shred

of happiness,

but I've already forgotten

what it was

I was trying

to hold onto.

Thus is the way of the storm,

weighing us down with water

until we can no longer feel

the individual drops.