i believe all love has the potential to be transgressive.

i’ve been thinking about how if LGBTQ relationships can be normative (eg conform to mainstream ideas of gender, partnership, capitalist consumption, domesticity, legality, marriage etc) then in the same way surely heteronormative or non-romantic/non-sexual relationships can be non-normative in many cases (non-normative as in transgressing socially accepted boundaries, destabilising our understandings of relationships).

i’ve been thinking about how maybe its much more about how you love and in what context, that is what makes love “queer” (queer as in non-normative/destabilising).

i feel my love for my nani, but especially my massi, has been transgressive. it has been deeper than it should have been and crossed more boundaries than it should have done, especially in terms of class, visibility, interactivity, physicality, etc.

i have reconsidered what “romance” means and whether romance can exist along axes we do not usually recognise; i believe it can, and does. and that makes me think also of all the things we do not measure in “non-romantic” relationships. we accept that romantic and/or sexual relationships end/break-up, but what happens to the others? and what words can we use to describe the grief and loss of parting from or losing our loves that are not given the status of romantic lovers?

what happens to the heartbreak we do not get to name?
cos if its not romance then its not hearbreak
and if its not heartbreak its not song-worthy
but i have sung you a hundred songs
and what about grieving for the living?
and what about loving the dead?

i have lost a thousand living people
and not to death
some i never lost at all, and that’s the heartbreak of it
the loves that became loves that stayed loves only of a hue
that changed from pink to blue and somewhere somehow
decided that it could not be.

there are no parting words for those kinds of heartbreaks
there’s no glamour
or not enough shattered glass
instead you slowly shed a skin and lose the love with it.

other times  you wake up realising you forgot to grieve
and that a yesterday that made sense just doesn’t any more
and laughter you used to know like your own
hasn’t graced your ears for years.
those kind of love-losses are given no name
there is no final text or closure
there is a swinging door
and photographs
so many photographs.



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