i wonder where we lock away love in our bodies. what is its latitude and longitude? is it in the orphic lines of your palm? the arch of your hip leaning tenderly into me? the graceless and joyful tide of your hair as you dance? the stars in your eyes, fresh like dew, intense like waves of the monsoon? is love a moment engraved in flesh? are we tattooed with its markings? are we a museum of imperceptible affections, invisible to the naked eye? is the mind a chocolate box, the flavours of each confit concocted by memory? (here's a midsummer night dusted with cinnamon; there's a winter morning that will burn like bluefire liquor; and another bittersweet with the apricity of the autumn auroral you proposed to me under). does the heart have its own memory? is that why it aches? is that why it dreams?

love is there, right there. it is blind, and so are you. you must reach out, and touch. memorise.

we'll keep the lights down low. i won't ask where your wounds are. i won't ask where it hurts. i'll kiss it all. you're like me: you can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.

i think we'll just have to be secretly in love with each other for the rest of our lives, and leave it at that. don't worry, it's not gone. it's locked away. here. hear it beat. the heart has its own memory. it does not forget.