Writing Us
I curl into your neck. Burying myself in you.
We breathe. We twirl red and white stripes on a barbershop pole, legs and arms locking into place.
Your breathing paces mine. Cars roll to the four-way stop, accelerating away. Rhythm to our night.
The burn in my nose as I drink in your drinks second-hand is as familiar as the weight of your leg and curve of your neck.
“You knew what I was.”
As if that would have stopped me from loving you.
How? How could you not know what I was?
A cancer in a bottle is no different from a cancer in your blood. I cannot despise you for what is not you. You are not a bottle. You are not a disease.
You are you.
I knew exactly what you were. Who you are.
I fell in love with exactly who you are.
I love you.
And every night as we fall asleep, I write our story. This time, I rolled over and wrote it down for you.
