secreter than your grandma's sex life

been thinking about these photos since I rediscovered them a few days ago.

We were so young. We’d only been together a couple months. We’d just gotten vaccinated— I could finally be in his space without fear of transmitting or contracting a deadly disease. I’d accepted my offer to Barbados and would be leaving for four long months in a couple weeks. I didn’t think it would be as hard as it was— distance hasn’t been hard before him, after all— but that was Before.

And this is so clearly After.

I feel for the two of them. I really do. The next two years will bring so much struggle and sweetness. We haven’t broken up yet— I’d be thrilled to hear that. There have been dark times and difficult moments and he’s shown up every single time. Distance would happen again. You’d solo travel without him. He’d travel to see you. He’ll go without you, too. It’ll be okay. You’ll be happy for him and he’ll call you twice a day he’s so excited to share things with you. Crabs on the beach across the globe.

You’ll have had a ring picked out for almost a year. It’s frustrating. It’s still frustrating. I’m tired of waiting. I don’t give him enough credit, though. I never do.

My sweet love. What a gift the last few years have been. You’ve pressed colour into everything. I wouldn’t be the woman I am without you— you’ve shucked back these layers of insecurity and smallness over the years. I’m fully realised, now. I know who I am and what my purpose is. You haven’t given that to me, you’ve helped me unearth it and strengthen it. Blow the spark into a flicker into a flame. Stood beside me, behind me, squeezing my hand under the kitchen table the whole time. Isn’t certainty of being loved a beautiful thing? Look at all that we’ve accomplished with it.

stripped down to your t shirt,

weak spring light illuminating the verdant greens.

the interstate is eaten up—

just this morning it was snow and mountains—

but you are beside me

and you are singing

and talking about marriage being the beginning of the rest of our lives

“Look at the bee boxes! They make me so happy!”

You’re beaming,

sunlight edging your profile in gold.

i am on a bus on a Wednesday afternoon when I am hit by it:

we are just so small and insignificant in the vastness of space,

the billions of people on earth—

but how lucky we are to see so much beauty

and have the privilege of loving the people we love

and be loved by them in return.

and how lucky we are when those orbits of others brush against us

and i, for once, had the wisdom to cling to yours,

and you to mine,

and so we’re out here together

letting “that soft animal body love what it loves”

and sucking out the marrow of beauty from the bones of this world

and content with the vastness of it

what did I do to deserve him, in all his shitty illiterate glory?

(we talked about getting married last night, this afternoon, foreheads pressed together. “let me know when you’re ready,” i say.

he breathed into my neck a few nights ago— “I want to love you for the entirely of two lifetimes: yours and mine.”

what did I do to deserve him, this sweet boy who breathes poetry and starlight into my skin, who spoils me because “it never gets to your head”, who laughs at our friends who insist he helps me because “look at her, she’s got it. I don’t need to keep her on a leash.” he traces lace across my back, presses kisses into my shoulder blades, catches my knuckles between his and kisses them like a promise as we drove through snow, with the music loud and I’m probably singing and nothing feels warm and safe like being with him does. “I trust you as easy as breathing,” I tell him, watching his face glow in the neon lights. “I feel so secure in everything with you, those thoughts don’t even occur to me.” and in response, he kisses me languid and boneless in the morning light of his childhood room. he cooked me breakfast this morning. rushed to wipe my tears with his gentle admonitions of “don’t cry, love. don’t cry.”

I ate a granadilla today and told him I was happy. He beamed and said “Good. I like it when you’re happy.”

I whispered last night that sometimes I think I don’t deserve him. He told me that sometimes he feels the same, and somehow I didn’t feel nearly so alone.

He wrapped me up as I sat on the edge of the air mattress this morning. “Guess what,” he sang, head on my stomach. “I love you…!” Said with so much joy, like it was as easy as breathing. I want to press this love into his eyelids with my fingertips, sculpting along his nose and jawline and plush lips, recreating him and having him borne anew of love, love and light that already radiates so strongly out of him. I am in awe.

Like the night a while ago where he lay there and listed everything he loved about he as he kissed me slow: silly things, like the curve of my waist and the colour of my eyes and the shine of my hair. but the wrenching things, too: “I love how caregiving is just second nature to you and how much you look after everyone even though I know it’s so hard” “I love how smart you are, god it’s so hot” “I love how brave you are” “I love how you aren’t phased when things get hard but just keep going anyway”. I whispered my own responses— how he sings in the car as I stir in half-sleep on his shoulder. how he loves me so deeply. how he’s learned to love children because of me. how we can spend all day in a museum together. how he respects and encourages my independence rather than chaining me to him. how much he wants to train our dog. how sweetly soft he is and how, even after all these years, it still catches me by surprise. He laughed at me for blushing when he flirted with me today. I didn’t know what to say. “I’m not used to people thinking of me like that,” I mumble, still rosy. “Don’t say that.” His fingers curl around my thigh. It feels like home. “You’re ridiculously hot.”

ugh okay I don’t like being this intimate but okay. deep breath. it’s okay.

it was the night that sparked a lot of things,

but I just remember him framed in the doorway,

after he’d tucked me into his bed and left to sleep on the couch,

and I’d brought him back in because the ache of wanting was so strong I could almost taste it.

“if you want to snuggle, all you have to do is ask”

“okay yes please, I’d like that very much”

and we settle down and it’s awkward because I’m with a boy in his bed—

in bed with a boy, what are the implications of this what am I going to do how am I going to explain this but it’s him it’s him I quite literally trust him with my life

and we’re not used to our limbs tangling like this and his pattern of breathing is so different and he still smells a little bit like marijuana

but it’s him, it’s him

and he’s proven a myriad times over he’s someone worth loving, someone worth trusting

and I trust him with my life,

I do.

so I’m nestled on his chest and it feels so odd but somehow, inexplicably, feels so right.

like the thousand tiny little choices and chances we’ve made over the course of two very different lifetimes have aligned for this moment.

and instead of undressing me,

or kissing me,

or even something as innocent as weaving our fingers together,

he asks about me.

“you good, how are you, it’s been a rough term and I know shit at home has been rough, are you doing okay how are you managing how is your heart how is your art”

and we talk,

about me. about him. about us.

the streetlights leak in through the shitty blinds,

tracing patterns on his ceiling as we talk for hours,

his voice burring through his chest and resonating against my own.

we talk,

but there are long periods of silence, too,

stretched out in lace and contentment,

because we know each other so well, at this point

even if I’m learning now that his sheets smell the same as he does and he likes to trace lazy patterns across my back with his fingertips and the weed makes his breathing judder oddly sometimes.

he does kiss me, eventually.

he misses, because I’m curled against his chest,

but he does kiss me, brief and quick and sweet.

it feels so innocent, despite the obvious connotations:

a girl in his bed at four am,

a friend in his bed at four am,

the intoxicants still lingering in his bloodstream,

the sweet rightness seeping into our bones at finally being curled around each other like this

after months of “will he won’t be”

(“I’d just given up hope of it ever happening to be honest,” he whispers, fingers caught in the snarl of my hair as he examines it in the light. “I still can’t believe it’s real.”)

and we have the hard conversation:

this isn’t right, we aren’t quite right for each other, “you don’t need to be strong all the time” and “it’s okay to be vulnerable”, but let’s have this space,

a brief night where we do nothing more than sleep and snuggle and breathe in sync.

it’s still so wrong. I know that.

but a single selfish indulgence,

when the world demands so much of me.

that’s okay, right?

i speak like namjoon.

but i love?

i love like yoongi:

quiet, gentle, unassuming

but engulfing in its breadth

and unwavering in its kindness

at least, I try.

nothing i ever write will ever amount to anything

and i’m sorry for that

but i’m just so fucking tired of trying so hard

with nothing to show for it

but an empty blog

and you call from up ahead,

directing,

guiding,

protecting me

your form flickers in and out of view

and sometimes you are nothing more than a faint voice carrying in the wind

and sometimes i swear

i swear it, lil,

that you are right next to me.

i can feel it.

someone who burned so bright

would not last the night

so like the stars above

and i don’t really know how to start describing you,

how your brightness drew everyone closer--

moth to flame--

how you encouraged me to write--

i’m still writing--

how you loved and helped and loved again--

we’re still trying to emulate that--

and how,

no matter what we tried to do,

we lost you anyway.

moth to flame to grave,

because, dear one,

i think someone who burned so brightly

i just

wish the words would come

because i miss you

and i think of you every day

and i dont have words for it

and i wish i could lend some elegance to the jaggedness of a pain that hasn’t faded

it’s been five years

five

whole

fucking

years

and i still think about you every day

and i’ve kept my promise to write

and i guess these things

are all i can do for you anymore

loneliness is an art form.

i learned this at thirteen years old

struggling with self-doubt, self-harm, self-worth--

self,self,self!

here is a thing i wanted: to know myself

here is a thing i feared: that i would hate the person i was.

loneliness i learned

from silky silences and lunch table politics.

but loneliness recognises loneliness,

and so our darkness was shared.

here is a thing i wanted: to tell my friend, just once, how deeply i love her.

here is a thing i feared: that she would have died anyway.

loneliness has since become a companion of mine

especially on these bright october days

five years after i heard the sirens,

wrote that poem,

recalled her advice to continue my writing.

loneliness is an old friend,

but i wish it still carried her shape within it.

here is a thing i want: to never hesitate to express my love

here is a thing i fear: that my inaction will once again cause the suicide of a beloved friend.

here is a thing i know: that it was not my fault.

here is a thing i believe: i could have stopped it if i wasn’t so hesitant.

here is a thing i cry for: fourteen year old suicide victims.

here is a thing that brings me joy: i haven’t stopped writing. five years later, lilly, and i’m still writing.