Unravelling and weaving, sometimes simultaneously


Am I your dirty secret, then?
It’s not the first time
I have been

an unacknowledged paramour
slipped in and out
the servant door.

In all your grief of things you’ve lost,
I am not mentioned…
to my cost.

Yes, I am angry, and alone
no private grief for me —
I own

each single moment that we shared
when I imagined that you cared.

Deluded me. I was a spell
repeated often
written well

but always used in private space
unable to claim pride of place

A concubine, a chere amie…
you were much more than that to me.

Sincere apologies I send
that secret still
here at the end

I cannot speak your name aloud;
what we had lived
beneath a cloud.


Comments on: "Secret" (1)

  1. I wrote a poem like this from the man’s perspective. I can feel the pain and the longing.


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