Dogs or a gnat. Three dimes, Tuesday, or the space where an old lamppost used to stand. Your Uncle Charlie’s left pinky finger. Dust motes or the long, raspy guitar solo from the studio version of “Free Bird.” Or myoclonic jerks. Or the declining entertainment value of the television program, “Homeland.”
Tell me: Are our loves less worthy than your own? Less deserving of respect somehow? Can you look me in the eyes and say they’re any less central to our being?
He caught my eye from the other side of the yard of a neighbor of mine. It could have been the hat. It could have been the ants that ran across the surface of his poorly-painted beard. We made love under the full harvest moon and by morning, I knew this was what I’d been born for.
It was who I was. It is who I am. I was born this way, don’t you see?
And for years, I kept it quiet and for years, I hid in shadows, ashamed, way, way back in the tallest grasses of the garden. I pretended to love women, sure. Human women. Women who were all grown-up. Women who were alive and who loved me too.
But that was long ago. The world has changed now. The sky’s the limit now and if that’s what you love now, well then, why can’t you marry the sky?
The sky… or the eighth of May? Or the trajectory of a silver bullet, Bangkok or the square root of pi? Or if it should so happen that you wish to start a family with the smell of Grandma’s cooking, then who am I – who are any of us, truly – to go and to try and say that you cannot?
Your dead friend Christina. The latent paternalism in the writings of Jane Austin or the ghosts of the flashes of light in your eye while coming down from DMT. Or, if you stop and think about it, why can’t six cigarettes, the letter K and some binaural beats be a family?
It is time. It is long past time. This is what we’ve been working towards! This has been the goal, all along.
Okay. How about this? Get a load of this one. This’ll kill ya: Would you believe that in my state – the state where I live and where my family lives – I can’t even step into the yard of my neighbors without their permission to go and to visit the love of my life?
My partner? My would-be spouse? Not even after seventeen years?
He cannot inherit. He cannot adopt. We cannot file taxes jointly. My health insurance does not cover cracks or chips in his concrete.
The assembly manual for a book shelf from IKEA. The pain from a twisted ankle, or the Hidden Elders, or a newly-fused supercell of nucleated plasmodial slime molds. The Death of Rats and your eyeglass prescription and my plans for taking over the city.
I found my love.
Now you go find yours.
Don’t listen to what the naysayers say. Love who you want. Marry what thou wilt.
They… can’t stop… our love!