Whitebark Stream That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter.

he speaks, and she sighs—it is simple happiness, gratitude. "thank you," she offers, softly. "that is all I want," she leans lightly against him, her head coming to rest on the soft curve of his neck. this had come quickly, more so than she'd thought possible. their future is not clear; but truly, even when it had seemed so in her life, it almost never turned out as she'd thought it would. and so, in a way, she was glad for the unknown that stretched before them, the simple knowledge that here, now, she was content. 

"things are seldom easy," she murmurs, tiredness pressing down her eyelids, "but with you, I am happy. with you, things will be good." of this, now she is certain.