The love of men who are not lovers. Resting my head against their chest, my fists folded under my chin, their arms, though slightly awkward, shielding me muffled, pulling me in.
The warmth of men who don’t go hot, their shoulders broad enough to bear my head and after the sobbing stops, who sit clasping my hand, in both of theirs to calm me down, not asking once what it was that had upset me, instead wondering, if their lovers had ever cried like this because of them.
A man who loves, but never like a lover, who asks for my opinion, who wants to talk, and perhaps best of all, who pulls out the boy in him and makes me laugh till I forget that I have cried.
With such a man I am a seven-year girl again, full of fun, full of colour and I feel as if I am a wide-open space under the heavens.
The love of men who are not lovers, because then I never have to say goodbye.