![]() My nipple piercing, which I’d gotten days after Lorde’s death in symbolic dedication to doing the work, was still healing.īeing women together was not enough. I’d moved in not so long after her passing. ![]() The woman who took the picture was Audre Lorde’s daughter, and the room I was renting had been her mother’s, still full of the beads Lorde would fashion into necklaces and bracelets when she was in town. She was documenting a historical happening, a portrait that spoke a truth about a specific time in history. However, what I would come to understand more deeply, as time went on, was that my roommate was documenting a moment that held many layers of rare archive it was about more than simply our love story. ![]() This romance, similar to a few special others, would come to mark a significant chapter in my life. My roommate at the time said that the photo was to remind us of the love we share during the rough times to come. It had been a particularly passionate lovemaking session our shouted pleasures shook the windows and reverberated out into the summer air glazing the streets of Washington Heights, New York. She laughed when the click of her camera caused us to look up, startled and slightly embarrassed. ![]() The one my roommate took that time she snuck in, freezing into eternity the moment my lover and I lay intertwined in postcoital glow. ![]() I think it’s the one photo that might have survived the bonfire. ![]()
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