A strange restlessness
A sense of deluded happiness
of a day of simply nothing
a random joy not often felt.
something lingers, creeping slowly
in the back of her head.
Just can't place it.
Tries not to worry, at all.
Too much good after too much sadness
coming at her so fast.
Maybe that's it...
Everything is almost perfect.
She sees it as bizarre and strange.
But likes it, no, loves it.
It's not perfect but good enough.
She doesn't feel guilty... yet
but hopes she won't
because it's not her fault
as people have said.
But there's enough wrong
to not worry as much
about everything exploding
and leaving her with ruin
and too much change to handle.
She loves her handwriting...
