There are too many words. Exchanged, unsaid. And kept.
Too many feelings unnamed, unknown. And known.
Too many moments. Unnoticed. Enshrined.
And some anticipated with unsung angst.

This may flare in darb colors of shock,

But I love you in the outskirts of a cheerless furrow,
Of skewered stories and every other shaped facets there is.
I love you in a scourging hush
And in a pediment of brazenfaced confessions.

I love you. So much that,

You scare me like a bane of incurables.

Not just there. Not just here. Not just anywhere.
Or by anything. Not just.

But you don't know.
Oh, you haven't a single clue.