I know what love is.

Sometimes, love is the secrets hidden
beneath long sleeves, the sort that travel down
past the heels of your hands,
indented with four crescent moons on each from white-knuckled fists,
riding the flow of your palms.

It is the soul hidden inside
the swells of baggy sweatshirts and
behind bloodshot eyes,
dark and swollen from long nights of waiting.

Waiting for time zones to pace themselves,
for the moon and the sun each
dusk and each dawn die so the other may live again.

Love is the voice hidden in

stale breath and aching muscles,

written in graphite and ink
on the crumpled sheets of paper
discarded at the bottom of a worn schoolbag.

Love is the words hidden in
shoeboxes full of letters beneath your bed,
in cell phone inboxes in the form of text messages,
and in the breathy tone of your voice
late in the evening on a school night.

Love is hidden in the tangible way
your eyes settle on me (not imprinted on film)
for the first time in months,
the way you ghost your fingertips over my face,
and caress my skin.

Love is hidden in the emotions when
you roll up my sleeves and kiss my arms,
the taut skin and the angry, horizontal valleys,
red with the lifeforce of mine
(that isn’t you).

Love is the tender reaction hidden in
tears welling up in your eyes,
blinked back with inky eyelashes so
I don’t have to see you cry.

Love is hidden in the anger against those who’ve
driven me to this,
against a God we can’t find,
against the one hundred and two miles that separate us.
It is the touch hidden in the
curve of your arm,
your body wrapped around mine,
holding me against you in the comfort I’ve sought for for so long.

It is in waiting through everyday,
waiting for the moment where
two can become one again.

I know where love hides,
because it hides from me.