I know the words behind your silence, I picture them crawling and banging on the door to be let out in an unending stream from your mouth.
I always see the tell-tale signs of agony or joy in the depths of your eyes, even before your mouth offers an explanation.
Blindfolded, I will trace the smooth roads and contours on your skin; your sparse eyebrows, your long nose, your eyelids, your almond-shaped eyes, the fullness of your breasts; the contours—those birthmarks on them—the smooth skin of full ecstasy, and the top from which a child and an adult child can get a sip of heaven.
I know you too much to forget you. The words behind your pause, the lies in your eyes. I can see gears in your head turning right before telling a lie.
I can see shadows trailing behind you even in the sun, on days when you’re just a broken reflection in the mirror.
But somehow, I never sensed the hesitation in you before kissing me. I could feel your shadow, but I feel your absence more and my days just pass in a mixture of black and white; colourless, sounds barely reach me in the shell I’ve taken abode in.
I know you too much to forget you. To forget you, I’ll need to forget me first.