I spent the year before proposing to Trye declaring loudly, and often, that I’d figured out what I wanted: another queer, asexual person committed to staying in Ellensburg and providing a space for kids. I wasn’t asking for too much. Specific, maybe, but not too much.

For a while it felt that way, until one day I looked over at trivia and that exact person had materialized from—of all places—Arkansas.

A puddled reflection cleaves / the largest robin I’ve ever seen. Cleaves, / or doubles. Doubles, or deifies. A worship / of muddy knees. Hinging / in any direction.

So nose to the ground, you piggy reporters / to snuff out stories like truffles, gobbling / the T from your “LGB” in Stonewall and Civil Rights / biographies. Mutiny your motley crew. Betray / Jill Hawkins, though she was like a son to you.

I think “Maybe I should give Them a call.” / We were close once, me and God—childhood / best friends. And, as those do, when we grew up, / we grew away.

With an excess of aimless love, in 2021 I threw myself even deeper into the medias of queer romance

But when I remember this silly—and caring—moment years later, I realize we’re often taught that friendships aren’t allowed to have any moments that could be interpreted as romantic. In turn, we’re robbed of a million ways to love our friends.

When I say I dislike kissing, that's not the entire truth. It's a (soft) lie, because there hasn't been a single time that I've held a purple tulip without lowering my lips to brush against the cool petals.

I think the joy of queer relationships is that they don't rely on stereotypes or scripts, but rather demand very open communication. Queer loves aren't just brave; they're also honest.

draft 12: an unexplanation / an assemblage / a rumination—on art, & self, & the artistry of being

brief / encounters make us exist always / as echoes, as one whole ocean in a bucket / in the memory of a stranger

I miss you like missing a train, as if I’m sitting at the empty station, waiting for you to draw near again.

“Maybe my body hates me because I never wanted it.” Ibrahim stops examining our finger ratios. “Now that’s pseudoscience,” they say.

I wrote this lyric essay years ago, but I feel its themes—indeterminacy, loneliness, distant forms of intimacy—are especially poignant now. So I want to share it with you, this love letter to friends, and to longing, and, too, to the possibility that sits within uncertainty.