Before I went to Italy for a month to try to salvage some kind of relationship with my father (which, while a story for another day, unsurprisingly failed), I met a person who I quickly fell for. She was the most handsome boi I think I may have ever seen, and we spent two whirlwind nights together up until the hour before I left for the airport. She was, since I came out as trans, the first person who ever gave me the hope that I would never have to settle on a partner. She was everything that I would have ever described as my "type" before I had the luxury of thinking someone like me could be choosy enough to have one. Significantly older than me, a stereotypical stone butch, chivalrous with a huge queer identity, passionately invested against oppression of all sorts, a stunning interpreter, polyamorous, and spiritual. She told me spoken words poems that I made her think of; I wrote poetry for the first time in far too long because of her: I just couldn't help it. She lives on the opposite end of the state from me, but she was already making plans to come visit before we even parted. We spent my month abroad writing each other like teenagers in their first romance. I was foolish enough to let myself fall head over heels for her. It only got better once I got back to the States, with phone calls for hours or even just minutes so she could hear my voice before work. I still couldn't stop writing poetry because of her.
Just a couple of weeks after I got back from my trip, with next to no warning, she called things off. In her texts to me, she told me she was so sorry. That she loved me. That she wished she hadn't dragged me into her shit but would love to be allowed to contact me again in the future. In the email she sent a day later, she formally told me she wasn't poly and that, as her friendliness could often be mistaken for flirting, she shouldn't have taken it to the next level. My gut says she told her partner a very different story than the truth, but I have no power over that. I'm not sure which part of making love for three days, plans for a stay at my home, and over a month of relationship was the "next level," but it didn't make me hurt any less. Losing her, along with the reassurance that I didn't have to settle for a one-sided attraction in my relationship, hurt more than it had any right to after such a short time. The lack of reason didn't make it rock my foundation any less severely.
I've spent the time since growing and being mindful and grateful. I miss her still. Of course I do. But, I think I'm grateful most of all. I was given an opportunity to realize I could have a partner I was in awe of, who I was smitten with, who turned my thoughts into poetry. Who could even be attracted to me as I am. A trans*guy. A queer. A Christian. Someone who is both at least a little poly and ace. She let me realize how valuable people perceive me as, and that maybe I should learn to perceive myself like that too. That I base too much of my happiness on situations and people rather than turning inwards and upwards, taking my joy from God and His sport and the energy of the Earth around me. She taught me to ground myself with big trees and old rocks and even my shadow of a dog. I'm grateful and more open, even if that than gratefulness is still a little sore around the edges. I'm a little wary of having an open heart, and more than a little wary of polyamory without talking to the primary partner first, but mostly, I'm healing.