There was the scientist
who spoke about black holes
like they were childhood memories.
The bartender in Amsterdam
with tired green eyes
and forearms capable of repairing my entire personality.
The Serbian architect
who kissed me once outside a kebab shop
while snow fell softly
onto both our bad coping mechanisms.
The married man in Madrid
who looked at me too long over wine.
We do not discuss him.
There are always men.
Beautiful temporary men.
Men who teach you things accidentally:
how to leave,
how to stay,
how to ask better questions,
how to stop confusing emotional labor with intimacy.
I wanted to save half of them.
The other half
wanted to save me.
This is what adults call chemistry.
Sometimes I think love is just:
two exhausted people
misunderstanding each other
with tremendous sincerity.
Still,
I continue.
Buying candles.
Learning recipes.
Washing good glasses by hand.
Preparing emotionally
for a tenderness
that may already be walking toward me slowly
through some supermarket
thinking about olives,
or grief,
or whether to text me first.
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 7:56 AM UTC
There was the scientist
who spoke about black holes
like they were childhood memories.
The bartender in Amsterdam
with tired green eyes
and forearms capable of repairing my entire personality.
The Serbian architect
who kissed me once outside a kebab shop
while snow fell softly
onto both our bad coping mechanisms.
The married man in Madrid
who looked at me too long over wine.
We do not discuss him.
There are always men.
Beautiful temporary men.
Men who teach you things accidentally:
how to leave,
how to stay,
how to ask better questions,
how to stop confusing emotional labor with intimacy.
I wanted to save half of them.
The other half
wanted to save me.
This is what adults call chemistry.
Sometimes I think love is just:
two exhausted people
misunderstanding each other
with tremendous sincerity.
Still,
I continue.
Buying candles.
Learning recipes.
Washing good glasses by hand.
Preparing emotionally
for a tenderness
that may already be walking toward me slowly
through some supermarket
thinking about olives,
or grief,
or whether to text me first.
Half my romantic history could probably be resolved through therapy and better timing.
