if it cannot be said

perhaps love was in the subtleties, the instinctive phone calls you used to make leaving work, the unison of your voice and the clip-clop of your dainty black heels on pavement making me wish I could take you dancing

or on date nights, in the lingering aroma of your Dove shampoo, in your still-wet hair, amidst a tornado from my blasted air vents as you rode shotgun

or how the Riesling on your tongue could teleport me to a vineyard in Monterrey County and I was sun-kissed placing grapes inside my wicker basket

or how you effortlessly mutated my body into a plasma lamp and every raging nerve collected where your fingers were

maybe it was in the way you looked at me and all those dreary days spent alone suddenly made sense