My heart grieves for a time when my love was seen as uneventful,
unremarkable to everyone but me.
When I would stare out into the setting sun,
atop warring waves,
and my love was safe in a way I can no longer feel.
I miss when I could kiss and nobody thought it was their business,
or something fitting of a protest.
and now that I am no longer hiding away in the nonsense of “normality”,
I have to accept that everyone has an opinion on what my love actually is,
and what it means and represents.
My love lives somewhere different to where I had asked her to reside,
so I worship in different circles.
I accept her exception, now,
through gritted teeth and frequent frowns,
and I let her live out from under the clouds,
on the condition that she does not reposition herself to be what everyone else demands of her.
I doubt that she will listen, but we’ll have to wait and see.
I do not want my love to be “a radical queer act” because a terminally online stranger with a posh accent and a past as a horse girl says that it is.
I do not want my love to be “hot to watch” because a pathetic, porn addled man who spends to much of his wages on OnlyFans says that it is.
I do not want my love to be “a sign of social degradation” because an insecure guy with misplaced guilt takes out their lack of God’s grace on me.
I want my love to be the soaring majesty of the opening strings of a symphony.
I want my love to be warring waves, who learned to play peacefully on Blackpool beach.
I want my love to be safe from prying eyes, and just between us two.
Can you keep a secret?