Secrets.  We all have them.  From the most callous criminals to the squirrel hiding his winter reserve.  What secrets do I have?  What secrets have brought me to be here, so far from home?

Who is he?  I don’t know.  But I do.  He is my love.  A secret within a secret – a direct mirror image, looking straight back at me.

He is the secret I wanted.  Not like the other ones.  He is my precious protected by the silence we convey to the public.

Life isn’t fair.  In our pain, we stand alone, shoulder to shoulder, sharing separately.

It is the way we have always been.  Secrets have ruled our constellations and so we meet covertly under the cover of sunlight.  Starlight starts to seep through.

He is my love.  He is my internal nocturne.  My sleeping agent, gathering information from trusted sources to share with me at the given hour.

I know how to keep him safe.  I want to shout him from the rooftops, but I cannot expose him like that.  I must remain silent as I converse with the close and the distant.  I will never betray him.

I want to shake him and shout him.  I want to wrap my arms around him and hold him to my heart where he already exists.

Remaining forever silent, I talk about him continuously.  My favourite subject, subjecting me to endless encrypted enigmas.

My perfect contradiction, shoulder to shoulder, withdrawn and spiralling down into hidden chasms.  Caves where small fires burn, keeping back the raging beasts that dwell there.  Sometimes the fires go out.

The door shuts.

My secret with the scarred face, a secret within a secret – a perfect mirror image, looking straight at me.

I know those eyes.


I am writing here about myself, but as I wrote, I thought of three men who have been special to me who I kept secret.  Secrets…




About catherinehume

Catherine Hume: Writer, social care worker and a liver of a life less ordinary.
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