Michelle | 20 | German



tiny little turn ons:

   - people leaning against walls with one shoulder while they talk

   - catching somebody turning away smiling at a joke you made

   - people who linger on a hug for just a second after you let go

   - somebody glancing at your lips while you’re talking

(via universalgayness)

I knew it then, in that room where we found
for the first time our eyes, and everything—
even the din and smoke of the city around us—
disappeared, leaving us alone as if we stood
the last two in the world left capable of love,
or as if two mirrors face-to-face with no end
to the light our eyes could bend into infinity.
I knew since I knew you—but we couldn’t…
I caught the sunlight pining through the shears,
traveling millions of dark miles simply to graze

your skin as I did that first dawn I studied you
sleeping beside me: Yes, I counted your eyelashes,
read your dreams like butterflies flitting underneath
your eyelids, ready to flutter into the room. Yes,
I praised you like a majestic creature my god forgot
to create, till that morning of you suddenly tamed
in my arms, first for me to see, name you mine.
Yes to the rise and fall of your body breathing,
your every exhale a breath I took in as my own
wanting to keep even the air between us as one.
Yes to all of you. Yes I knew, but still we couldn’t…
I taught you how to dance Salsa by looking

into my Caribbean eyes, you learned to speak

in my tongue, while teaching me how to catch

a snowflake in my palms and love the grey

clouds of your grey hometown. Our years began
collecting in glossy photos time-lining our lives
across shelves and walls glancing back at us:

Us embracing in some sunset, more captivated

by each other than the sky brushed plum and rose.
Us claiming some mountain that didn’t matter

as much our climbing it, together. Us leaning
against columns of ruins as ancient as our love
was new, or leaning into our dreams at a table
flickering candlelight in our full-mooned eyes.
I knew me as much as us, and yet we couldn’t….
Though I forgave your blue eyes turning green
each time you lied, but kept believing you, though
we learned to say good morning after long nights
of silence in the same bed, though every door slam
taught me to hold on by letting us go, and saying
you’re right became as true as saying I’m right,

till there was nothing a long walk couldn’t resolve:
holding hands and hope under the street lights
lustering like a string of pearls guiding us home,
or a stroll along the beach with our dog, the sea
washed out by our smiles, our laughter roaring
louder than the waves, though we understood
our love was the same as our parents, though
we dared to tell them so, and they understood.
Though we knew, we couldn’t—no one could.
When the fiery kick lines and fires were set for us
by our founding mother-fathers at Stonewall,

we first spoke defiance. When we paraded glitter,
leather, and rainbows made human, our word
became pride down every city street, saying:
Just let us be. But that wasn’t enough. Parades
became rallies—bold words on signs and mouths
until a man claimed freedom as another word
for marriage and he said: Let us in, we said: love
is love, proclaimed it into all eyes that would
listen at every door that would open, until noes
and maybes turned into yeses, town by town,
city by city, state by state, understanding us
and the woman who dared say enough until

the gravel struck into law what we always knew:
Love is the right to say: I do and I do and I do…
and I do want us to see every tulip we’ve planted
come up spring after spring, a hundred more years
of dinners cooked over a shared glass of wine, and
a thousand more movies in bed. I do until our eyes
become voices speaking without speaking, until
like a cloud meshed into a cloud, there’s no more
you, me—our names useless. I do want you to be
the last face I see—your breath my last breath,
I do, I do and will and will for those who still can’t
vow it yet, but know love’s exact reason as much
as they know how a sail keeps the wind without
breaking, or how roots dig a way into the earth,
or how the stars open their eyes to the night, or
how a vine becomes one with the wall it loves, or
how, when I hold you, you are rain in my hands.

Richard Blanco, Until We Could (2014).
(via neitherlost-norfound)

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