A Tale of Her Quiet

I’m not the kind of woman that will scream her love out from the top of the world or will learn how to crack you up when you feel down.

I’m the kind of woman that silently watches you as your eyes stutter before you fall asleep or the way you squint them when you take off your shades. I’m the kind that notices how you tap your feet to no music or rhythm when you get restless, how sweat trickles down your face more when you are angry than when you make love to her, how you cover your mouth when you grit your teeth or let out a curse, how you tease her about salads and sex, how you revise and refine the painting you painstakingly conjured up in your head, how you passionately talk about music when she can’t make a head or tail of it, how the twinkle from her ring irks you out of possessiveness, how you’d want her but not a wedding, how you’d want a family but not kids, or how some alcohol can make you spill all the love until it’s morning again and the words have a hangover.

I’m the kind of woman that reasons out her outbursts of anger so that she wouldn’t turn venomous on you, widens her eyes as she sees you walk in neatly shaven and smelling of cold waters, giggles at the way your shirt tucks out carelessly, ignores how you listen in rapt attention when she speaks of photography though most of it bounces off your head and ears, knows how you smile when your mind is seething with the multiple things you want to do to her in bed, observes how you plant a kiss on her forehead timing it perfectly so that you don’t look clumsy, smirks when you casually ruffle her hair as you ask her if she’d like a glass of wine or vodka, feels apologetic when you catch her staring at your butt as it swings from left to right and back, feels dejected when you grow unapologetic of the hurtful words you spit at her, or blushes when you reach your arm out around her waist and pull her onto your lap… all along wondering how she could possibly be experiencing such loud feelings and drifting on raging oceans so quietly.

Perhaps I’m the kind of woman that, in silence, loves you beyond measure. For tomorrow if she loses her voice you can still hear her.

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