i loved him.
  
it wasn’t the sort of love
they wrote novels about,
the kind that glows,
but the quiet kind.
  
the kind too soft
for love songs,
 
reserved
 
for endless love poems,
hidden behind shy smiles
and forbidden glances.
 
symphonies,
 
the kind that played
long after curtains were drawn,
long after his feet
had left the stage.
 
it was the kind of love
i hid behind concern,
hoping that one day
he might fall in return.