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.