he doesn’t know you’re in love with him. you stare from across a crowded room, imagining ways to slip beneath his skin and unpack your things, get comfortable.
he doesn’t know how many times you say his name in a single day. how your eyes sparkle and your lips lift—he cues your bliss.
he doesn’t know about the songs you’ve arranged in a playlist to tell him everything you swallow in his presence. you’ve scattered phrases in an attempt to practice, hoping he’d string them together and say it first.
he doesn’t know that his voice in your head gets you through dinners with your dad and his girlfriend. the ring he nearly threw away is a saving grace wrapped around your finger.
he doesn’t know about the drives you take in the middle of the night—the conversations you have with yourself in between green lights. the red glow halts your thoughts, a reminder of his gaze, of his touch, of his voice.
he doesn’t know that he’s always protected. you pray every morning, sometimes to god, sometimes to the sun as it yawns and paints the sky in hopeful, empowering brightness. you know the light reaches him through windows. you know he’s awake. you know he’s seen more sunrises than you ever will, but your love always caresses them.
he doesn’t know about your grocery list and the line that separates your things from his, prepared for another just stopping by that ends once the moon is high. a shelf you can only reach on your tippy toes deserves his name on a label.
he doesn’t know about the lights on your balcony and the nights you sink into the couch with a glass of his favorite wine. you smile against the rim remembering his recent observation: your tolerance was better. you were training yourself in times alone, terrified of being drunk, aware of the words you’d share—the way you’d touch his face and ask for more, for everything, to be adored.
he doesn’t know that it’s only been him, forever, since you were kids, before you even knew about an only, when sharing a glass of lemonade was enough and all you wanted — when treehouses weren’t so scary with his hand waiting for yours as you climbed up after him — when he sung for you, told you he wanted to be someone, and you told him he already was. maybe he’s known ever since.
