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Because BJ and I are unquantifiable. It’s the nuances of all the ways we love each other and have loved each other and keep on accidentally loving each other and it’s the intricacies of our threads we’ve knotted together and it’s the secrets we know about each other and it’s that one broken heart we share.
Weather okay over there, Parks?
Very good. And the bees? Oh, they’re grand.
Parks and me. It’s in the fucking stars.
They say it conquers all, but does it? Can it even? All is so vast.
I’ll love him ’til I die, love him ’til it consumes me whole and kills me dead—so maybe love doesn’t conquer all but just some.
I know that some love is beautiful, and some is freeing, some unravels you, some love poisons you, some blinds you, some betters you, and some loves break you in invisible ways that no one else knows about until you have to stand up and the weight of your love crushes your bones.
How’s the weather, Beej?
don’t know. You’re cross. I don’t know what I am. I’m sorry. For what? I don’t know. Everything? I’ll call you tomorrow, okay Okay I’m sorry.
How many loves do you get? Tell me it’s two. Fuck. Please, tell me it’s two.
At the altar of the tree, I make a thousand soundless prayers and offerings, beg whoever’s listening to align our stars and let him be who I thought he was. If he can’t be that, I pray, may I be free of him and not have it kill me. But he is worth dying over and that’s the part that gets me, I guess.
Can you die from a broken heart, do you know? And if I did and they cut me wide open, would I bleed loving him?
