I wake up to the June sun streaming in the east-facing balcony door

of my one room apartment on St. George Street in Toronto

cardinals chirping together outside on the leafy branches of an old oak tree

bedcovers thrown off my double bed, clothes strewn across the tile floor

me, shirtless, my Fruit of the Loom boxers on inside out

beside me, Lori sleeping soundly

her Marvel t-shirt on inside out, too, and backwards

hands tucked under her cheek on the pillow

one thick, muscular thigh draped over my sun-browned leg.

Recalling yesterday afternoon, I smile to myself—

she and I strolling together down the middle of Church Street

with a pulsing, writhing mass of bodies

proud and boisterous and brightly dressed (and some not so dressed!)

cheering, whistling, shouting, hugging, dancing, singing, kissing, frolicking

and how we moved among them, with them

full of abandon and the pleasure of marching together

hands held, eyes wide, and hearts brimming

parading with people who understand the feeling of

living in bodies that were

forbidden to love one another

imperceptible to the rest of the world

scourged, vilified, erased

for so long.

Recalling last night, I smile to myself—

she and I and our lips and collarbones and bellies and thighs

and the heat of our bodies together

made love

made pride

made revolution

made the world.