A Night In The Life of My Lover

*A Note From the Editor

I’ve recently become involved with a group of young LGBT activists from India on Facebook. India recently had their Supreme Court rule that the law that declared homosexuality illegal was against the constitution of India.

This allowed their LGBT community to finally come out of the closet without fear of being arrested and now they’re thriving!

They invited me to join their group because many of them wished to know about the history of the American gay rights movement so they can learn not only what we did right but also what we did wrong.

These young people possess creative talent, spirit, pride and motivation that seems to be lacking now in the American movement because, it’s sad to say but true, the American LGBT community has become complacent and lazy about their equality.

I can say without a doubt that these young people have renewed my faith that young people can be the path to the future if they want to be.

The following poem was written by one of those wonderful young people and I think it’s worthy of publishing because it shows talent and compassion that sometimes seems lacking in American LGBT society these days.

I hope everyone enjoys this as much as I did.

Stephanie Donald

Editor

LGBT-Today


A Night In The Life of My Lover

 

Awakened_from_SleepMy lover screams, and wakes up. Another nightmare. Thinks about calling me up, then changes his mind. Walks to the window, lifts the faded curtain, and looks up at the drab black sky with unseeing eyes. 


Walks to the dresser. Looks at the mirror. The skeleton in his face is held at bay for the moment. Crixivan works. Yay. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, and he, a knight at my window, to be my Valentine. Must watch the Laurence Olivier version again, he reminds himself. To sleep, perchance to dream...

He can't sleep. Sweats. Gets up. Changes his tees. Turns on the radio. Cat Steven asks plaintively, "Where do the children play?” My lover has no clue, and he'd never have kids anyway, so he turns the radio off. Poor Cat Stevens, seeking salvation in all the wrong places. My lover would settle for his immune system, any time of the day.

Rings me up, but my cell is switched off. Gets the answering machine. Hangs up. Knows that I'll call in a frenzy next morning, and frowns. Serves me right for loving a twink, says to himself. For a moment, thinks about the other man who once held him, and said he'd look after him forever. Forever lasted for about 10 years, and ended in a hospice. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

There's a message on the fridge: someone has left a pie in the freezer. He knows he'd never eat it, and would be sick anyway if he even tries. Apple puree, yum, he mouths with a sardonic smile. I sound like a fucking jingle. But hey, might as well advertise for the one product that I can still force down my throat. Hurray for geriatric food, HAART, Valentine's Day, silly twinks.

The ancient clock, marked "Castro Hardware", strikes one. It is Valentine's Day. My lover goes back to the bed, and falls asleep: a deep, dreamless sleep, as merciless as the cold steely waves that smother a floundering swimmer.

Lover, come back to me.

Printed by permission of the author;

Abhinandan Ronnie Banerjee

 

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