i.
in my heart, I think about
you often. each time, it brings
a smile to my face.
these letters contain lifetimes
of the type of love that gets tucked
away in closets, in unlabeled manila
envelopes. my hands hold a
coming out not chosen, only
found, after they transitioned
from this world to the next.
I understand them. and them,
me. something intimate and fragile
inside always knew we were made
out of the same kind of stuff.
ii.
I think about the time I told
my friend how I was pretty
sure I loved her. how I first
expressed my love in middle
school diaries and later slid long
notes across her desk. she would
always blush at a distance.
my chest beat so loud in her
presence we made a promise to
meet where attraction could
withstand the noise. in the
gym locker room. after school.
behind bedroom doors to study
the ways a first kiss might feel.
when it happened, my entire
body unclenched. the euphoria
that filled the room lingered
long enough for us to write a
story only the two of us knew.
I told my counselor I would risk
the teenage torment if it meant not
losing who we were to each other.
iii.
letter by letter, each page
tears into tiny pieces. I wonder
if their connection became the
safety they needed. if just
between the two of them it was
impossible for their desire
to be hidden, even if the world
couldn’t fathom their bodies being
deserving of such love. the splitting
is slow, then fast, then slow again.
I let the sound of paper ripping
soothe all that was kept close.
all that maybe longed to get free.
iv.
by college, everyone knew. I was
out turning my queer love stories
into poetry during open mic nights.
girls cut their eyes and turned their
heads to witness what they’d heard.
I would grab my girlfriend’s hand,
pull her close. with sweaty palms we’d
dance through the gossip whispered
up and down hallways. each motion
was a projection of pride that became
our form of protection. if we practiced
joy long enough, we could dance
ourselves out of the pain. that dance
followed me into my twenties.
thirties, too. now—an entire spectrum
queering all of the reasons to stay
alive. I still write poems to remind
myself I am not afraid to love her,
or him, or them. this reclaiming
myself was never a phase.
v.
the bag is full and I’m heavy. I have
no flowers to memorialize the
magnitude of what they shared.
I conjure what my ancestors taught
me but do it my way—white candle,
bowl of water, an upbeat grief
playlist to call in an undoing of
everything that kept them afraid.
fragments of sentences decay
and old ink fades at the torn
edges. I remember how she
smiled and now, a small knowing
of why and for who. I gather
what’s left to bloom and bury
their love outside.
