she kissed me once,
in the dark corner of a bar
nobody we knew would ever walk into.
her hands were trembling,
but her lips—
god, her lips knew exactly
what they wanted.

and for a moment,
I let myself believe
she could be mine.
just for a moment.

she pulled away like she’d been caught,
looked around
at all the strangers who didn’t care,
who didn’t even see.
but she saw them.
she saw their eyes in her head
even when they weren’t looking.

“this can’t happen,” she said,
like it hadn’t already.
like I wasn’t sitting there,
still tasting her on my mouth.
“you don’t understand,” she said,
and maybe she was right.
because I didn’t understand
how you could feel something that big,
that loud,
and still pretend
you didn’t.

but I didn’t fight her.
I just nodded,
because I’d seen this before.
not with her,
but with others like her—
women who carried love
like a smuggled thing,
hidden deep in their pockets,
afraid to let it see the light.

she called me late sometimes,
when the fear wasn’t as strong
as the wanting.
we’d meet in motel rooms
on the edge of town,
where the curtains were thick
and the walls were thin.

and in those moments,
she was alive—
all fire and ache and need.
but when the sun came up,
she’d be gone before I woke,
like a ghost
afraid of being caught in the daylight.

I told her once,
“you don’t have to live like this.
you don’t have to hide.”
but she just shook her head
and said,
“not everyone is as brave as you.”

brave.
what a word for it.
it didn’t feel like bravery.
it felt like ripping myself open
over and over,
waiting for her to decide
she was ready to step out of the shadows.

but she never did.
she stayed in her closet,
her church pew,
her tight little box of shame.

and I stayed outside,
watching the door,
waiting for it to open.
but it never did.