I never whispered or screamed it out loud,
But somehow, I think we both knew.
Some words are too soft for sound,
And some men too shy to spell—
So I kept quiet, and loved you in my heart instead.
I'd see you pass by my auntie's shop,
And I would look away—afraid inside.
She spoke so kindly of you;
She said you were rural and rare—
The kind of woman who lives in small moments.
I went abroad to study,
And met many foreign ladies—wild and calm—
But none could warm my colder days.
That December when I returned,
I wished you'd smile and say, "It's been so long,"
But neither you, nor those soft words, ever came along.
You married well; Adhieu gossiped.
Men and women ate to their fill that afternoon.
You were very happy—I heard the news.
Yet still, my imaginings grew stronger,
As I sat by, hoping for an unhappy marriage—
But the lone bench reminded me they were only hopes.
Five years have come, and five years have gone.
Life has moved on, as life must do.
You have had children, and all the love you ever wanted.
Each time I hear how well your marriage is,
My head turns a hair grayer—
Yet your eyes still hold the only light I ever knew.
We never made vows; you never said you loved me.
There was no promise that someday it would be mutual.
It was a love that had quietly flown in my heart,
And ended somewhere where the Nile turns.