closet affairs of tender hearts || a poem
Carved by the mighty hand of the inexplicable universe, Her delicate fingers glide across my palm as our Passion unfurls in little sighs of non-clandestine affection.
She fills my marrow with a doleful ardor as we sit side by side, prolonging our brief existence of comfort and quietude.
My heart slows as she moves closer to me, Closes her eyes, and wishes to disregard The attentive vigils—their perpetual disdain.
I gift her forehead a perturbed kiss; and with rheumy eyes, she allows my ears a single, tremulous word: “Aaliyah.” I hush her, but I too can feel the ice creeping along my spine.
Her small, disheartened form curls into my blouse, Releases a sigh of anguish that severs our existence in two. I ache to stay, to assuage her reviled identity, but The vigils await downstairs, their tongues laced with venom.
No more than two societal critics confiding our secrets, Our comfort, her shining eyes, was not theirs to steal— Yet both have blown away and left us cold.
So in goodbye, I whisper her name as she did mine: “Dylan.”
