May these pages be:
A lantern in shadow,
A balm in sorrow,
and
A compass in wonder.

Walk gently,
Speak truth,
Love boldly.

I am the dusk caught in a bottle,
sunset bruised into velvet red,
rolling over your tongue like a whispered truth.

I’ve waited in oak and shadow,
learning patience drop by drop,
until the world was ready to ******* story.

I remember the heat of the vine,
the laughter of pickers with earth on their hands,
the long, slow sleep until your palm found my stem.

So sip, and I’ll tell you the rest, not in words,
but in warmth blooming behind your ribs,
where memory and desire are the same colour.

Tonight we gather, bold and bright,  
In sequins, leather, lace, and light,
A constellation, queer and free,  
Of every shade and fantasy.

The music pulses, hearts align,  
Consent is sacred, touch divine.  
We flirt with fire, we dance with grace,  
Each body honoured, every space.

No shame, no hush, no need to hide,  
Our truths are worn with radiant pride.  
From whispered yes to playful tease,  
We move with trust, we aim to please.

Pan, Bi, Ace, and fluid souls,  
Transcending binaries and roles,
Here love’s not boxed, nor strictly paired,  
It’s shared, explored, and deeply cared.

So raise a glass to joy unbound,  
To chosen kin and pleasure found.  
In velvet rooms and candle glow,  
We write new scripts, we let love grow.

There’s a pulse beneath the lace,
not just lust, but something traced  
from every hand that held me whole,  
to every night I missed her soul.

I come not just to taste or play,  
but to remember how to stay,
in this body, in this breath,  
in the dance that defies death.

Let longing be a sacred thread,  
not stitched in shame, but love instead.  
Each touch a hymn, each sigh a prayer,  
each gaze a vow to still be there.

We are the flame they tried to *****,  
the kiss too loud, the love too tough.  
We rise in glitter, sweat, and song,
a chorus where we all belong.

No closet, shame, or whispered name,
just chosen kin and holy flame.  
Tonight we burn, we bloom, we dare,  
in every touch, we say: we’re here.

Let every moan and every cry  
be proof that joy will never die.  
We are the spark, the heat, the glow,
the revolution, soft and slow.

They don’t wear crowns,
but they carry light,
in casseroles left at doorsteps,
in lullabies hummed to the grieving,
in the way they say your name like it’s sacred.

They don’t preach,
but they listen
until your story
feels less like a burden
and more like a bridge.

They don’t walk on water,
but they wade through sorrow
with boots soaked in compassion,
clearing culverts,
planting seeds,
writing poems
that make space for the ache.

They are the ones
who carry the spirit
not in thunder,
but in touch,
a hand on a shoulder,
a whisper that says:
You are worthy.
You are whole.
You are held.

They are the ones
who answer “Why me?”
with a smile that says,
Because love needed a body,
and you said yes.

Because you stayed
when silence felt safer,
when truth was a trembling
thing barely stitched together,
you stayed.

Because you held the line
between memory and becoming,
between grief and grace,
between the ache of what was
and the bloom of what might be.

Because your breath
carried stories
that hadn’t yet found their names,
and your hands
built altars
from broken things.

Because you knew
that love is not a luxury
it’s a lifeline,
a lantern,
a legacy.

Because you danced
even when your feet were tired,
even when the music
was only in your head.

Because you forgave
the world
for not knowing how to hold you,
and then taught it.

Because you are not just surviving,
you are composing
a symphony
from the echoes of every “Why me?”

Because you stayed,
and in staying,
you became the answer.