and do not tell me this is not love.
do not tell me that watching his sillhouette fade
into yesterday's sun and tomorrow's rain
is any less than a serenade
sublime in its intent.
do not tell me that love must be
late nights/entwined limbs/shut the blinds until rays of light rejoice over the entanglement of warm in living in a sacred room.

my love is radiant
it is my eyes on his with not a touch or a whisper of softness
it is the quiet dedication of unrequited
the softness of what i know his hands would feel like if only i could
reach out.