On a quiet, December night she thinks of him, and the memory of a possibility lost is another layer of coldness that presses in, needing to be held off with blankets and distractions.
She is secretly timid, quiet, and lonesome. Her long tresses are convenient because she can hide behind them if she wants to, when the need for cover arises.
Her hair can’t shield her from my voyeurism. I can see past the layers of distraction she throws up around her; a true rendering of her personality plays out visibly in the moments when she believes that no one is watching her.
I am always watching.
The true feelings she secrets away in the depths of her being, what fools call “deep in the heart,” I am aware of, as keenly aware of them as the casual observer is aware of the color of her eyes, or the curve of her hips.
Even now, her unconscious actions betray her true thoughts. They are evident in every facial expression between beats, the little flurries of movement from her hands, and the way she lightly bites her lower lip for a split second before a strained smile replaces the temporary slip. Each of these things speaks.
The messages are indiscernible to most, the language indecipherable. I, however, am aware and fluent.
In this moment she is lost, alone, unsure. She is yearning, needing.
No one else knows her as I do. There is not another soul who can truly understand what she feels. Surface rules do not apply to the reality of her emotions. One must dig much deeper to nick the hidden, vulnerable secret.
She is easy for me to understand. All that she is can be unlocked with ease.
Of course, I have a bit of an advantage over the rest.
I am her.
The blankets are never thick enough.