“they will not write about us because darling
we’re not in love and we both know that poems ought to be about lovers
or brothers
not best friends halfway in the middle
god, i’d never kiss you
but our hands fit like puzzle pieces and your smile makes my heart sing and you cried when you said you love me
voice thick with fear and awe and i knew then i could break you and that terrifies me because you deserve better but i would die for you
when i was thirteen my bedroom window looked out on the big dipper every summer and it made me feel safe but if every star in that constellation went out i’d still have your hands smoothing a brush through my hair (your eyes shine brighter than those distant suns anyway)
we are not the stuff of legends in this world where it’s only love if you fuck the stories people want to hear end in a kiss not a high five or a fistbump but if i’ve got you i don’t need to make history
and while you do not kiss away my tears you let them seep into your shirt and to me, that is just as good”

— not every beautiful thing has to be a love story (g.c.r.)

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