For [REDACTED]

I

The young version of me that read
all the epic Greek tragedies on my mother’s sofa
because I wasn’t allowed to go to the parade
leans closer towards the trans-dimensional portal
during the summer solstice every year.


II

I am walking home in a sweatshirt you lent me
with your high school crest on it.

It is 10:31 pm. I feel very safe.
I always do,

Walking from the gayborhood to my house
A straight line South

Past trees and dive bars and high schools.
Past nuclear families that look a lot like mine used to.

But tonight it’s different.
Because I wasn’t dressed for the drunk journey home.

Because you lent me a sweatshirt that smells like you.
Because you wanted me to get home safe.

I am so sad and so drunk and so grateful.
I would marry you tomorrow if you asked,

even though we barely know each other.
Even though I know desire for my safety isn’t the same as plain desire.

But I love everybody. And I love you.
And I love walking home like a man in the night,

Like I was born for nighttime walks home,
Like I was always the darkened silhouette of a stranger.

Anyways. Thank you. I’m sorry if I’m not loveable and gentle.
In the way that you always are.


III

I pass by two strangers at Pete’s Pizza at 10:33 at night.
They are the only two people in the restaurant.
I see them briefly through the window.

I wish I wasn’t outside alone. 


IV

I will be clinging to my boyfriend’s skirt
as we push through crowds at a pride parade
so we don’t get separated in the glitter and chaos.

I will make us coffee. We will read news on our phones
together. I will be able to laugh at the news
in our precious shared hour before work.

I will live in a house with family photos on the wall
and a game room and a bowl of lemons
and so many books that they overflow onto the windowsills.

The tragedy lives in the not yets.

I don’t know how to turn myself into a person that’s ready to meet you,
the anonymous you out there
over the ridge of the present.