I drove you in the winter to save your motorcycle from the snow. You were undeniably hot, but totally weird. Oblivious to my own attractiveness, it felt easier to keep things secret. I thought it was for the best to not long for public recognition, and spare myself the embarrassment of mistaking myself as valuable.
I had to have known there were other secrets. Close to me. Secrets feeling unlovable out loud.
What would we be like today, with matured honesty of time and distance, and the hope that we became better people and lovers? Is it wrong to want one more? To see if it still feels nice?