You were a secret he meant to always keep.
You are treasured and loved, in his own way, as you say. In the depths of the chest at the middle of his soul. Right beside his deepest and darkest, near the roots that ran through his ego and supplied by none other than his love.
You had your own moments I wouldn’t have known anything about. Your moments were memories, safely locked, like pictures kept safe in the dark room after developing.
You had all your sweet nothings whispered silently to your ears or shown to your and your eyes alone. The words were seeds on your own secret garden.
You had your love at the darkest of shadows, living a story fit to your own little world, just the spaces peeking at where you and him began.
I think its romantic, how it was just you and him in your secret little love story, and that secret little world. Your book was hidden in that back shelf at the farthest stretch of the library, and by some measure of a chance, I stumbled and found it.
Granted, I still am not in on the secret.
I don’t know of the moments, nor the words, nor the love.
I just know of the secret and who you are.
You are a secret he means to always keep.
But, I guess, if I were him, you wouldn’t be a secret at all. You’d be the sigh at the beginning and the end of long sentences, or the shout at the top of my lungs at the summit of mountains. You would be the gossip that escaped, formed and reformed by the many times I’ve talked of you.
You would be the who, the what and the why since the where and the when would be of no consequence.
You would be the question and the answer and your name would mean both because and yes at the same time.
But I guess, in the grand scheme of things I took no part in planning, I’m just another secret keeper waiting for the day the universe would write that other book.
My book perhaps, with my own not-so-secret to keep.