Story by: Desmarie Jackson
Art by: Gabi Backus
tiny love stories originated from one of the many discussions about the lack of representation of queer love. Society is making progress (though dubiously) towards increased queer representation, but too often protagonists are cis, white, and conventionally attractive. Moreover, mainstream queer stories often revolve around the traumas of coming out, murder, violence, and isolation experienced by queer folks. These are all important topics that inform and shape the queer experience, but they don’t define queer existence. tiny love stories reacts to this by exploring moments of queer love, in all different aspects and from all different perspectives. Celebrating these moments of connection and joy recharges us by reminding us of the beauty in the everyday interactions of our community. These are our processes of learning to love ourselves and learning to live without hesitation or fear of judgment. These are our tiny love stories.
Your eyes are dark with stars and galaxies.
I promised you I would save you the cliché love poetry, because you deserve more.
Your eyes always beg the question. What is it? Whimpering with your brows, softening with every blink and every brush of your lashes on my cheeks when you are sleeping next to me. Everything about you is like that, so dark and so curious. As if a whole universe lays dormant within you, as if whole lifetimes have lived in and through you. Querying. Like a shadow, like a mystery, like a secret I haven’t ever told and will forever keep. In the mist.
Her voice is passing notes in class when the teacher isn’t looking, slick and cool and tickling my skin. My fingers trembling during the hand off. My hands trembling when she holds them. Your skin is so soft and I don’t know how. Soft and sweet you whisper to me, your skin whispers to mine. Your laugh takes me home, and holds me, and carries me when I am too weak to walk. To talk. To laugh. To cry. I am never too weak to feel your body on mine. I am never too weak to feel your life in mine.
Your mind, your thoughts, everything you (are), you are unreal, the divine love and mind you own is unfathomable in this world of mine.
We were smoking. That bong could never get the best of me but it always got the best of you. We were in your grandparents’ garage. My stomach hurt, hit with the iron fist, I could smell the alcohol on your tongue, I could feel the moths and bugs landing on my warm, moist skin – thirsty, but I was more. I was thirsty for your touch, your fingers, for your confession of love. I was in a drought and the storms raging in your eyes promised sacred libations.
It was hot and humid, our usual summer temperament, and with every gentle breeze, a sigh from the trees, we inched closer, noses touching, your breath dancing on my skin like a million ballerinas and a Mozart symphony the melody you sang from your lips. Your hands on my back, reaching and scratching tree branches dancing in the wind. The world dances.
My heart prances. You leaned in close and if I closed my eyes, I’d know the second you pulled away. I am never too weak to feel your breath mingling with mine. You never pulled away. You were never scared. I was nervous, more nervous than when I got called into the principal’s office for the first time in kindergarten. I was on my toes, reaching for the stars you hide in your eyes. I made a wish and your lips pressed to mine before I could contest.
When I am around you, I feel a wholeness unlike any other. Like I’m safe. Like I’m here. Like I exist. My knees go weak, the typical response, and my heart feels like it’s trying to break out of its cage and go home to yours. I feel warm. I feel warmth. I feel light. I feel enlightened.
When I am around you, I wouldn’t imagine being anywhere else. Because anywhere else would be a world I only knew before you, lonely and cold, and as corny as it is, it’s with you that I want to grow old. All the stories my grandma told. Watch our petals wilt and fall off, water and sun no longer enough to nurture our roots, standing tall only because we are wrapped in each other. I am wrapped up in you. Maybe that is not love but I am in love with you.
