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I have a secret: I remember the hands, so much larger than my own, so gentle, the curve of the lips, telling truths that they thought were lies, the voice, oh, that voice, running in my blood like wine, and the name I will never so much as whisper.
Only in secret do I dare to think of Him, or they will know that I did not forget one night the world spun backwards in a silver light. They tried to take Him from me then, tried to make it so that He never was, but I made a secret place in my heart and hid Him there, safe from them and their light. He is mine now, my secret lover-that-was, all mine, for no one else remembers that name but me, always, in the secret place in my heart.
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