everyone’s always asking if we’re a “thing,”
eager to mold our nine-year friendship
into easy categories of girlfriend and girlfriend
when really I’m just a femme queen
praying to your butchdom.
I pay tribute
in plane tickets
and phone calls
shrinking the distance
between you and me
are back in our teens,
flying down tree-lined highways
and sighing smoke to Lady Gaga’s
only this love is good,
this love is grand
and building houses,
the one you always said
you’d get married in.
we used to dream of men,
now we see each other.
people always want to know if we’re fucking,
which we haven’t.
but we don’t avoid it either.
possibility has always been our brand.
what’s more erotic then almost a decade of being seen?
not like voyeur and exhibitionist seen but
the kind of sight that comes from loving the pieces that make up being.
the peace of knowing another person loves the history of your skin.
spills the past into the palm of my heart.
becoming soft again.
we stay up
till the sun aches.
stooping on your rooftop
spliff lips sifting
silence can describe.
of our love
hardening in the sky.