queer disabled poet & intermedia artist
Your number is still in my phone. Part of me refuses to delete it because doing so seems like the final admission of your leaving.
The guilt I feel in even thinking that is tremendous, but there is it, immediate and definite. I don’t think you’d fault me for it.
I wonder if I had known then when I know now, if I might have asked you to slow down as we raced toward your parents’ house that night.