I think I’ve loved you
since you were thirteen.
Tall and nervous
making skyscrapers of baby boy shoulders.
I turned you bright red.
And years later
we drank flat soda on my living room floor.
You said you could hear me singing
from outside the window.
I wonder if you waited before ringing the doorbell.
But lung loud days came later.
First there were tentative hugs
on church concrete,
as if you were using your arms
to measure how much I cared about you.
We hummed in hallways.
Laughed at things too heavy
to carry alone.
You walked a while in my heels
and never fell once.
I hope you don’t remember
the night you cried through.
You said you hadn’t planned
on being around the next day.
Or any day after that.
And I knew that darkness
from nights of my own.
So I held you without words.
We spoke in the way our fingers shook
in each other’s hair.
I almost lost you that night.
We almost lost you that night.
You almost lost you that night.
But the next year
you were teaching me which strings
made the sweetest noises.
And how to feel safe
when the voices outside were too loud.
We don’t talk about that night.
Instead we talk about kid’s shows
and which dress I’ll wear that afternoon.
We discuss the things we’ve lost
and the things we’ve let go.
I’ve loved you since you were thirteen.
Scared of your own voice.
Catching yourself in the shadows
made by lives
much older than yours.
And I will love you tomorrow
and in five years
when we drink cheap wine on a new living room floor.
Finding pauses between memories
to recall the childhood you almost didn’t have.
Pictures and ramblings of a queer femme princess.