Finding Happiness My Own Way

He scans my face for signs.
He thinks my happiness is an indication of something he did,
or something done by another.
You hate to be stood up, he says,
as if to understand my tantrums.
He worries there is someone else,
or perhaps many someones.
How do I tell him he's right.
There is another.
Words make me happy.
Music calms my mood.
In my quite solitude,
alone with my pen,
I find peace.