“I felt like it wasn’t mine to keep, only mine to give away.”
Even in vulnerability, she speaks with rock-hard resolve.
Her dark, dense eyes are always searching; not in frantic pursuit, but with slow, deep resolve.
As I speak she is watching me, studying my movements, following my endless gesturing, taking note of my tone and cadence in the sweeps between my wildfire passion and candlestick in the breeze vulnerability, her focus never completely leaving my own eyes; maybe believing they speak most clearly. She effortlessly sees into me and it’s completely comfortable. I’m not being stalked, hunted, or anything of the sort, just thoughtfully observed.
She listens in such a way that words never overtake meanings, weighing every word and its place in the phrase somehow casually. I imagine that it’s how most people would watch a painting come to life layer by layer. No questions asked, just faith that every stroke will make sense at the end.
Her momentary plunges into quiet reflection are the same way; carefully sorting through all the thoughts in her head looking for what she’s really thinking beyond all the noise.
Sometimes we all forget which thoughts are ours. Seems like we’ve both found a safe place to pour all of those other things though, and without saying, we both know it.
much more than it may first seem.
She is among the few who sees.
I noticed as we somehow sat through seasons at In-N-Out one evening.