John.
In every case your name has been the same. John M., in the men's homeless shelter, in the bunk next to mine. You were my beloved, even as we both walked forward towards what it meant to be human in very different ways. We were straight, thought most of our friends thought we were gay. We trusted each other. That's what mattered. The stoop of the Catholic church was our sanctuary. Sidewalks were our pew. Both outsiders in very different ways, we looked into each other and saw each other deeply. You trusted me and I trusted you.
John.
I taught your Friday classes. I tended your plants and fish. Your descriptions of how to take care of them sometimes ran into ten pages! You let me drink your cheap beer when you were out of town. You were SO meticulous in how you dressed and your jokes were almost ALWAYS inappropriate, but always hilarious. The Greek and Roman plays performed at your house were always amazing. And yet you were always the consummate professional. Though the jokes were ribald, you personally never crossed the line. You played your cards close to the chest until the day you died.
John.
I noticed how beautiful you were the moment you arrived. You were surprisingly feminine in oh so many ways. Your eyes, your lips, your gentle laugh. It didn't hurt that you're a cross breed gorgeous human being. I'm so glad we got to know each other as friends, sharing honestly with each other. Though it was painful for me, I was glad you found her as a mate. She's one I too was attracted to, and for good reason. She's straight up gorgeous. After all, I do love the lady parts notwithstanding my history of male emotional intimacy.
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