Happiness for Everyone

This text is part of Lintara Poetry — a series of poetic texts non-explanatory transmission.

HAPPINESS FOR EVERYONE

We were sitting close enough
that if someone had walked in,
they would have apologized.

Our knees touched
not constantly—
but periodically.
Like two people still pretending
it was accidental.

My chair creaked.
I froze.
You didn’t move away.

Happiness begins
where no one prepares to escape.

Your hand rested on the table.
Ordinary.
Unarmed.

I looked longer than necessary.
You noticed.
You didn’t withdraw.

That’s how the shift happens—
without announcement.

We were sitting
like two versions of the same person
who finally stopped arguing
about who survived.

My body turned toward you
before I decided to.
I realized it later.
I didn’t correct it.

Happiness is
when you don’t want to undo your own impulse.

Your leg brushed mine.
Lightly.
No drama.

Almost
is the most dangerous distance.
Choice lives there.
And the fear
that choice might disappear.

My hand was twenty centimeters from yours.
Twenty centimeters is all of human history.
And one second.

You placed your palm over mine
so calmly
the world lost its storyline.

Happiness
is the absence of storyline.

Your skin was warm.
Mine—tense.

I almost made a joke.
I didn’t.

The silence held.

We weren’t brave.
We were unarmored.
That’s worse.

You leaned closer.
I smelled your skin—
not perfume,
not metaphor,
just living.

And I understood:
I don’t want more.
I want precision.

Your head rested on my shoulder—
slightly awkward.
Your chin brushed the fabric.

We both heard it.
We didn’t fix it.

My muscles tightened first.
Then released.

Happiness is when the body
stops waiting for impact.

My hand rested on your back.
No direction.
No claim.

You didn’t shrink.

And something became irreversible.

Not the touch.
The permission.

Happiness for everyone
is when no one becomes territory.

When weight
does not turn into power.

When being held
is not turned into a conclusion.

We stayed long enough
for my leg to go numb.
I was afraid to move.

Not because I’d lose you—
but because I might break
this rare
“allowed.”

You exhaled.
Your weight deepened.

And I realized
you were risking something too.

Not love.
Not future.

The absence of armor.

That’s the quietest risk.

You pulled away first.
Slowly.

I felt not loss—
but expansion.

Between “before” and “now”
nothing spectacular happened.

The world simply
stopped demanding explanation.

And that felt
dangerously close
to happiness.

We didn’t become a story.

And I’m still not used
to calling that a victory.

No one left wounded.

Because no one
was taken.

And no one
became smaller.

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Where you are now

This text is part of Lintara Poetry — a series of poetic texts non-explanatory transmission.
These texts operate through intensity and aftershock rather than argument or narrative.

→ How to Read My Texts

Category: Perception & Nervous System
Series: Lintara Poetry

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