it was all clandestine, love.

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having it gone feels like a weight lifted off my wings. a heart that never hurt from hurting in poetic fancies and reveries can finally breathe in the ache of not longing enough— the ink of your presence dissolving into mine, until it becomes but an ancient memory in between the lines.

wasn’t it but a clandestine love? wasn’t it me sneaking off at dawn, Venus-light, spring dew coating my dress— waiting for you. all the morning skies we captured and treasured in this town are but anomalies we illicitly hide, foreign symbols so cryptic and wordless. 

there isn't a single picture of your face in any of this. it weaves into everything else, just like that. I sat there helplessly trying to find the words to describe what it’s been for my heart, only arriving to the love that coats the entire universe ever so silently delicately.

who were you? why are you but a cloud now, colossally bewitching the royal blueness of my sky, vanishing with the burst of summer sunlight. when the day begins, what was it but my fingers reaching out to hold your hand to find the nothingness we had always been..

a clandestine love it is— not one trace of you lingers. not one trace of a vision walks itself here. 

perhaps that was all it was meant to be.
going with grace in an inscrutable world.

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