A Secret Kept
At the very cusp of winter dawn,
Before the sun wake from slumber,
The narrow alleys lay bare and silent,
The moon slowly fade from existence.
It is at this hour when feet hit gravel,
Rushed steps race against time.
The winds carry distant heartbeats,
That of a woman barely nineteen.
The youth of her fragile soul,
Thunders against her bosom,
As she nears the clock tower,
Holding testaments across time.
A man barely out of youth,
Slips out of the shadows,
Their fingers barely grazing,
His own heart raging still.
A change of hands for the epistle,
Delicate letters weaving tales,
Of those not to be spoken in daylight,
Finding refuge in the solitude of night.
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