I’m thankful that I don’t know what it is to love you secretly. Instead I know your kiss in the dark room that red wine blurred, the heat radiating off your skin in the middle of a below-freezing night. I know what my name looks like in your handwriting, how it sounds on your lips from across the room. I know your arms wrapped around my trembling shoulders in the moment before I cry. I know the curve of your lips before you know you’re smiling. I know that I won’t know how to forget if you ask me to, but I’ll try.