An old letter you wrote once and never sent, still in the drawer, the ink still legible if you ever opened it again. Venus keeps to your twelfth house, the room behind the room, the edge of sleep where daylight forgets what it knew, and so some of your deepest affections are the ones you carry without ever declaring. There is something genuinely romantic in this, and something quietly expensive too. A love kept entirely in private is also, in the end, only half a love, because it never gives the other person the chance to hand anything back. Saying it out loud is not crass. It is simply how affection becomes available to be returned. Let the person know now and then. Let yourself be on the receiving end for once instead of only the keeper of the secret. Your contemplative, hidden tenderness is rare and worth honoring, and you are allowed to carry a little of it out into ordinary daylight and let the daylight figure out what to do with it.