Our Little Love

The light freedom which soaks platonic relationships allows for a support of the independent differences people hold. Yet, the narratives and confessions we allow our friends to hold guardianship over, closely hug the loose ends forged by our distinctions.

Romantic love is incomparable to the expansive and radical love which seems to soak and seep into all my platonic friendships. Particularly those with the women and non-male individuals in my life.

The continued focus on romantic love places only specific value on a type of intimacy which is allowed to feel passion.

Yet, I long for alternate love. Platonic passion, which I allow myself to feel deeply, with the women I share a kitchen with, ride the bus with; and the women whose door I knock on, collapsing, sharing narratives amongst until the early morning.

The love feels expansive; as lessons get learnt, quiet moments are had, and dancing remains our language. A gaggle of six lovers amongst fuchsia lights, souls on hardwood flooring.

It is each other’s arms we cling to on the way to the station and our fingers – nails painted black – which interlock. 

The pressure of leaning on one another feels soft and the embrace is transformative. 

A continued, tunnelled, societal focus on romantic love, seems to foundationally support a patriarchal admiration for a love which solely seeks to create monetary and marital bonds.

This alternate is without a mortgage; the weight is different but depth the same. The contract remains unbound as an acceptance of the other person’s growth is the vital source which feeds intimacy.

I confess I wish to stay here. Coven comfort. Soaked in our love. 

by Abby Hunt

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