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Description
When I was 16, and so young
I said my favourite colour was blue
because I did not know that there were
other types of girls, and that it was OK
to be different.

On a school trip then, we hiked
several mountains up, too close to the skies
and I tasted the stars, shimmery and sweet,
against your neck, your still-boy-almost-man stubble
burning, burning, burnt

Whiskey sweet, devouring
every inch of my being, I felt the wait
of a million worlds, constellations that crissed-
crossed, always crossed,
star lovers.

Now, at 25, a quarter of a century
older, I say, I’m sorry I never loved you better.
I did not know, then, that there were
other types of loves,
and that it was OK

that the stubble-burn you left
on my burgeoning skin never quite satisfied,
never quite tasted right. I wanted
the burning death of sun-kissed cheeks
and velvet skin, smooth and warm

in ways I didn’t know how to articulate,
and it’s taken me years, of burning,
of almost dying, of imploding
of spinning without knowing, to know
that my childhood books lied.

Now, I know
exactly where we are
in the universe, and it is full
of stray thoughts and
loose ends.

But I do not know, yet
how to express
myself. How to do this, because it is not Math,
it is not a constellation,
it’s a fucking rainbow

and I know now, that blue
is a warmer colour. I know now
that it is OK, but OK is not quantifiable,
not justifiable
for who I, simply, am not.

Description
When I was 16, and so young
I said my favourite colour was blue
because I did not know that there were
other types of girls, and that it was OK
to be different.

On a school trip then, we hiked
several mountains up, too close to the skies
and I tasted the stars, shimmery and sweet,
against your neck, your still-boy-almost-man stubble
burning, burning, burnt

Whiskey sweet, devouring
every inch of my being, I felt the wait
of a million worlds, constellations that crissed-
crossed, always crossed,
star lovers.

Now, at 25, a quarter of a century
older, I say, I’m sorry I never loved you better.
I did not know, then, that there were
other types of loves,
and that it was OK

that the stubble-burn you left
on my burgeoning skin never quite satisfied,
never quite tasted right. I wanted
the burning death of sun-kissed cheeks
and velvet skin, smooth and warm

in ways I didn’t know how to articulate,
and it’s taken me years, of burning,
of almost dying, of imploding
of spinning without knowing, to know
that my childhood books lied.

Now, I know
exactly where we are
in the universe, and it is full
of stray thoughts and
loose ends.

But I do not know, yet
how to express
myself. How to do this, because it is not Math,
it is not a constellation,
it’s a fucking rainbow

and I know now, that blue
is a warmer colour. I know now
that it is OK, but OK is not quantifiable,
not justifiable
for who I, simply, am not.