And They Lived . . .

by Steven Salvatore

“I already know who you are. You just have to be brave enough to show the rest of the world.”

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,”

Jack smirks this sort of half grin, and his blueish-gray eyes look sinister, but the kind of sinister that could convert the purest of boys to the dark side.

“There is nothing more beautiful than words.”

I want to make what I never had.”

I try not to overanalyze the crinkle of his smile, but I can’t help that I’m already kind of maybe completely totally lost in it.

And there’s no pressure to be anything other than exactly who you are at any given moment.”

I guess that’s the thing about stars: they might always be there, stuck in the same fabric that lines the sky, but they will always be out of reach.

“Because the point isn’t that they were happy forever but that they lived. They took a chance and lived.”

Something tells me I’ll forever be chasing Jack.

He’s shaking, and I inch closer, wanting desperately to wrap my arm around him and pull him into me, to protect him from whatever he’s going through, even if that thing is me.

“I’m good with words,” he says. “But some stuff is impossible to say out loud.”

Bedtime stories start, “Once upon a time” but nobody says the quiet part out loud: that happily ever after is a lie and the real story begins long after the end once the reluctant hero learns love is complicated and easy to admit in the dark once the lights go out and nobody can hear the sounds of your heart beating

Then there’s you with eyes like a mirror full of divine conviction your irises undiscovered galaxies shards of broken glass distorted by tears mine and yours you don’t demand anything from me but me And I run away because I fear what I see when I look at you, the endless possibilities and your inevitable disappointment

His words are gentle whispers that waver as he utters them—deep, dark, threatening secrets.

It’s the soundtrack to my dreams.

On the brink, I hear a faint whisper: “I love you.”

Who cares if he has demons? We all do. We’re gay.”

There’s so much in those beautiful blues that I don’t know but want to—stories and dreams and night terrors that paralyze him.

“Everyone always says it is lucky to be struck by lightning. Nobody ever tells you how to live once you’ve been struck. All I know is that it is impossible to harness.”

The wind carries seeds like your name on my breath So why is there ground where flowers never grow? Why do some things never settle and root like trees? Then I realized what my garden lacked You I’m in bloom

You remind me of red cardinals and majesties unknown faraway lands and magic spells, words I’ve yet to learn that haven’t been invented because with you I’m an unwritten novel reborn in your margins under night skies, and rainy-day puddles. we exist in the breath between lightning and thunder where the end is a beginning, that starts with three simple words a poem by your name that goes I love you I love you I love you

It’s funny how so many of us struggle with the same stuff: feeling like we’re not enough. Not good enough to be loved. Not beautiful enough to be worthy. Not talented enough to be accomplished. Not significant enough to feel important or seen.

Once upon a time, Jack and I were two people who were sort of lost when we met, found ways to love ourselves, and then each other. And then lived.

we exist in the breath between lightning and thunder where the end is a beginning that starts with three simple words a poem by your name that goes I love you I love you I love you