Stolen Glances

They won’t write about us because, darling,

They don’t know

That we were stealing glances,

While they were getting drunk.

They won’t talk about us because, darling,

They don’t care

That we drenched our bodies in each other’s scent,

That we walked all over each other’s soul.

There won’t be any poetry dedicated

To the way you carry my heart in your heart,

To your whispers, and to my silence,

To your constant urge to hold my hand.

And baby, you make me wonder too often 

If I exist in your mind at all,

If my words still linger in your thoughts,

While it’s 2am and you’re too tired to sleep.

And there won’t be any monuments to celebrate our being because our love isn’t beautiful.

Its peculiar, it’s tormented,

And I sometimes even question its existence.

There won’t be any work of art that could ever explain,

What you say to me in more than words,

What you do to me in more than touch.

Our conversations will never melt into rhythm

Because the words never seem to come out right.

And they don’t know that our hearts are yearning

Because we’re too busy filling the empty room with empty conversations.

Darling, we’re afraid. We’re in love with defeat,

But they don’t see the way you look at me,

They don’t know I forget how to speak.

So, darling, they won’t write songs

About how you draw maps on my skin with your fingertips,

About the way you set me on fire,

And cool the flames whilst you kiss me deep.

Because, baby, they don’t know what we are.

Baby, we don’t know what we are.