There is no proof of us.
I will not speak your name.
No pictures frame us together.
Letters could be lost.
Even when we embraced,
we reserved plausible deniability
as we approximated our version of love.
It was a meat thing,
skin on skin, muscle against muscle –
the odd language of flesh
shouting down our tepid protests.
On our first night together,
I remembered your promise to me.
“I would divorce you,” you had said
though we never once spoke of marriage.
And I knew when we were not together,
you walked down beaches of security,
but I will not announce his name either.
So I leave you to the age of myth
as I clothe your body in metaphor.
Though I sometimes still must ask,
“Do you ever speak my name out loud?”