I’d probably never write you anything moving. There was a time I could though – a time I could promise you the world and mean it and then dig my hand in my backpack like a good boy scout but come up empty handed.
That time, I loved like I was told that I should. I would find someone safe, quite unlike you and dive deep into her. We would share our dreams and our lips and our friends and fake it until we would break it. And a lot of times she’d hurt, and I’d hurt for hurting her, at least, most of the time.
But it’s been a long time since church girls and factory-boxed romance. It took me a couple of months to know what I want and know that it’s not wrong to want it.
Thank you for being my friend, and for loving me as deeply as I love you. Thank you for fucking the entire breath out of me twice a week. Thank you for letting love be a wild thing, nameless and free to act in amorphous character.
Thank you for letting me love other people too.