If anyone were to ask -- my love has only grown in the quiet. Its mark burns in the sky. A smoking shape in every tree trunk; a pattern in every water. It forms in the stirred cream of my coffee, and it patterns the rain on my windshield. In the mirror, it resolves into the threaded net of tiny capillaries in the whites of my eyes. In my lap, my hands fall carelessly into its gesture.
Not to worry. No one will ask.