You had the perfect response
almost. I believed I’d be 
safe with you, and I know you 
believed I was. But almost
perfect can turn un-
certain in an instant, in
a word.

You listened to my story
with gentle eyes, eyes care-
fully set, and a mouth firmly 
neither a smile nor a frown. You
wanted to be seen as taking
me seriously. I held your 
attention with a panoramic
memoir of my life in love. 
I offered my journey as 
evidence in the trial of my
authentication. I explained
and explained and explained my-
self. 

And you gave an almost perfect
response. It should have been
three words, but you added 
a fourth, and that one word,
that fourth word turned a corner
you didn’t intend, I am sure, but 
still, it careened right into
qualified acceptance, head-
long into good will with
a short half-life. 

I love you 
anyway. 

I hear
Even though you’re wrong,
I love you
Even though you’re strange,
I love you
Even though you’re less than,
I love you
Even though you’re abnormal,
I love you.
Even though you’re weird, 
I love you.
Even though you’re gay,
I love you. 

To which I say,
(sigh)
I love you for trying
anyway.