Two reasons I didn’t want to write this. The first is, there has always been some finality to documenting an experience, as if exposing it to the world is to somehow declare it’s now good and done. Evaluation all finished. Thank you for your time. But, fuck, I still want your time. Bear with me.
Second, and this is tricky to put into words, but there’s something especially unusual about your brand of beautiful. Like a story that wouldn’t make sense without background knowledge, like a tone stuck in your head but you can’t properly hum. How do I explain that I’ve sat and watched bits and pieces of the universe, of you and me, comprising together, playing out, perfectly synchronized, and worthy of fucking theaters. So, you see, semantics is a problem.
I would attribute you to kindness, but the word is flat and reductive. Kind is helping a frail old lady cross the street. And to be honest, I have no idea if you’d help a frail old lady cross the street, but you’d forgive those who come with heaviness that doesn’t necessarily correlate with old age. You’d love them regardless. You’d allow them peace and acceptance and ease. God, do you have any idea how much, how often, the world needs to just be allowed to fucking breathe? You’re fresh air to be around.
I could attribute you to gallantry. The kind of bravery that doesn’t require a world war or a fairytale hero. Walking the streets wearing yourself on your sleeve, hair all bright blue because fuck them all to hell and back? How could you do it when you knew you could get a punch in the face for it? How did you not co-exist, tip-toed next to a wall like we all do when the world wouldn’t acknowledge different because it doesn’t understand different? How did you choose to endure rather than change? Don’t ever change.
I could attribute you to grace. Not Nietzsche’s silly notion of a supreme being that never bends. It’s the way you speak of your scars, the way you don’t demand an apology for them, the way you don’t expect the world to owe you a reconciliation. When we’d laugh about them, and I know it hurts but you’d make the joke regardless; and the way you have managed to break free off all layers of a pathetic hypermasculinity society has imposed on almost all of its biological males, as a sense of identity, character, morale. You created your own and it’s beautiful.
I won’t address my side of things. Or how you’re kind, brave, graceful to and for me (nor would I detail the way you look at me, the “what?” and then the “everything,” or how it makes me look at myself in the mirror after), because this is not about me or my experience. It’s about you. And how you’re loved because you deserve it. You’re loved because you deserve it. You’re loved because you deserve it.