All tangled intentions and awkward places. All mis-steps and glorious accidents of eyes. First my body; and the way it looks the same whether or not the lights are on. My body as a poem. My body as something that came into the world just as confused as it is confident. As something that is different than any other map you’ve wandered. My body as something that you don’t know much about. My body as a multitude of plane trips and boat rides and midnight walks through strange neighborhoods. My body as expense, as smoldering intention, as radical, as a protest of assumptions. My body as a song you’ve only heard once but remember all the words to.
Then like this
By helping me straighten my tie, by holding my hand, by appreciating the ways I am masculine, but not forgetting the softest parts. Eyeliner, cologne, red wine and whiskey, cooking dinner and washing the floors, deep voice and wild gesticulations. By reminding me to check myself when I forget my privilege. By checking yourself about that privilege not being born into me. By helping me to be a better man. By forgiving me for not being perfect. By always, always, always dancing with me. By holding me when I’m worried my gender supersedes my need to be held.
By reminding me that your gender and my gender were meant to be and just how lucky we are to know each other this way.