Because so much of patriarchal culture writes off any nurturing type of love as femininity or as lesser, it’s easy (and strongly encouraged) to hear “the way men love” as an oxymoron, or as a warning. But there’s also something so sweet about the love that startles through that expectation, that blooms regardless and despite it. The love that forgets to introduce itself.

With an excess of aimless love, in 2021 I threw myself even deeper into the medias of queer romance

But when I remember this silly—and caring—moment years later, I realize we’re often taught that friendships aren’t allowed to have any moments that could be interpreted as romantic. In turn, we’re robbed of a million ways to love our friends.

When I say I dislike kissing, that's not the entire truth. It's a (soft) lie, because there hasn't been a single time that I've held a purple tulip without lowering my lips to brush against the cool petals.

If the events of most of my friendships were taken out of the context of, well, me, they’d sound like the plots of love stories. My friendship with Mitchi, rather than being an exception, is one of my favorite examples. Case in point: our biology class meet cute.

I think the joy of queer relationships is that they don't rely on stereotypes or scripts, but rather demand very open communication. Queer loves aren't just brave; they're also honest.

I miss you like missing a train, as if I’m sitting at the empty station, waiting for you to draw near again.

I wrote this lyric essay years ago, but I feel its themes—indeterminacy, loneliness, distant forms of intimacy—are especially poignant now. So I want to share it with you, this love letter to friends, and to longing, and, too, to the possibility that sits within uncertainty.