She was married today on Columbine Ave. It was a processional of precision, but for the incorrect pronunciation of fidelity. She walked in on an aisle of aspiration and walked out on an aisle of fulfillment. She is the flesh and blood of my mother's REM cycle. She is 90 percent. She is universality: where there is love, there is marriage (and there is a lot of people in love [or who assume to be, to their best understanding of 'in love']).
And though I love my friend who has always dreamed in white, I am not her. I am not her.
As my fingers touched the keys, as my eyes scanned the notation before me, I could feel my muscle memory was oddly strained. My mind could not engage in the polyphony before me. Instead, I detached and thought of another 'her': in East GR, probably walking, probably reading, probably analyzing truth and emotion, probably thinking anything besides what I am thinking.
I am thinking about why my stomach has been in knots for the past two days. About why they look at me in a different way then they did two years ago. About why disavowal has become a religion for them. It is because I love her. It is because a "her" and a "her", in their eyes, should not even tiptoe in the aisle. And my eyes will not be dry tonight...but the salt in my mouth will taste sweet, because I now know fidelity is a word I will someday be able to pronounce. Even if no one will listen, I will still speak the words.
I pledge fidelity.
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