The crooked line of your love
does not run parallel to ours.
They tell you it’s a kink,
they say it’s easy to smooth over,
they send you away.
When I see you again, you
tell me that you’re still crooked.
Your girlfriend is beautiful,
but you don’t love her.
When you are to be married,
I ask,
How can you marry someone
who you do not love?
You tell me that you love her,
but not in the way that I’ll
love my husband some day.
I think I understand.
When times have changed,
and they drive down streets with colors
flying from the windows and
painted proudly upon their cheeks,
you tell me.
“I am gay,” it bounces off
the bounds of the sky and
swallows you whole.
I have known for so long,
and I hold you in my arms as
your spine slumps crooked into my side.
Crooked is wrong
but you’re only right to me.
They tell us straight lines are parallel.
I say, two crooked lines can be parallel, too.
-Rory Finnegan
does not run parallel to ours.
They tell you it’s a kink,
they say it’s easy to smooth over,
they send you away.
When I see you again, you
tell me that you’re still crooked.
Your girlfriend is beautiful,
but you don’t love her.
When you are to be married,
I ask,
How can you marry someone
who you do not love?
You tell me that you love her,
but not in the way that I’ll
love my husband some day.
I think I understand.
When times have changed,
and they drive down streets with colors
flying from the windows and
painted proudly upon their cheeks,
you tell me.
“I am gay,” it bounces off
the bounds of the sky and
swallows you whole.
I have known for so long,
and I hold you in my arms as
your spine slumps crooked into my side.
Crooked is wrong
but you’re only right to me.
They tell us straight lines are parallel.
I say, two crooked lines can be parallel, too.
-Rory Finnegan