Happiness is Not A Warm Gun

Happiness is not a warm gun.

It's more like drinking a hot cup of mint tea in a bubble bath (1/4 water, 3/4 bubble) listening to Sarah Vaughan. And stepping out of the bath covered in foam to lower the volume, not caring about the foam dripping off me or the wet footprints in the carpet, because it's my own place, dammit, and no one is here tell me to stop making the carpet wet.

Happiness is not a warm gun.

It's more like climbing a rocky path alone in the midday sun, using your childhood treeclimbing expertise to hold on, listening to the voice of your Could-Be-Love singing as they play guitars at the picnic below.
You grip, you hold on, you pull yourself up in your shiny, completely inappropriate silver shoes (they said it was a picnic, they didn't say nothing about it being in the middle of the desert).
And then sitting as high up as you can get, watching the quiet land, as a plane flies overhead, and you see him climbing up towards you.

Happiness is not a warm gun.

It is the pit of your stomach when he hides his head in his hands and says he's scared shitless of the future. And you realise you're not the only fucked up, paranoid obsessive thinker in this relationship.
And that gives you just enough strength to reach out and tell him shush, don't think too much.
When we both know the thinking will start the minute we pull apart, our skin turns cold and our breaths subside.

Happiness is not a warm gun.
It is the numb ears after too much music, zipping open your tight skirt after too much pasta, steam on your naked back, sleeping early for no good reason. Happiness is soft hands tracing circles on your stomach, fresh bread, rain in your hair, feet pulsating to Indian music, knowing your friends are safe and love you, and being ok after too many years of not.

Happiness is not a warm gun.