She knows it’s month-end quarter-end, and that I’m juggling but I hate juggling. /She/ hates juggling. I’m stressed so I don’t call her unless I’m at That Point. She knows all this so. She calls you. I only vaguely register the shifting of the bed as you scramble to pick up. 

Must be hours later when I open my eyes to catch the tail end of a wince. You’re frozen, phone in one hand, charger in the other. Wide-eyed. I pull you down as you manage to get out “Let me call you right back.” 

Sighs. God She loves you so much.
She loves you too. You hold up half my sky. 
Excuse me while I kiss the sky. 

I am so goddamn lucky to have grown up the way I did, surrounded therethere by unconditional love. Her, Big, Facesake, AKT, the Captain, Heart, Handsome, Art, Lane, countless immortal others. It’s tremendous. And you’re the tip of the iceberg, Bee. I won the Life lottery.

This month isn’t really for me, you get that - She loves me. Still. I am so /so/ fucking proud (that, I cannot deny) to kiss you in the middle of the street, lean my forehead on yours between, hold you tight all the while. In the honesty of daylight. Unapologetic. To say, “Yes. This is who I love and how. Come and fucking end me then. If it is such an egregious assault on your sensibilities. Go on.” You, I refuse to love by halves. It wouldn’t keep. You are the Love whose name I dare always speak, dare roar. 

I love you more than one more day. Happy Pride, baby.