Not really. Really, I can be guessed, by movements, the way I catch my breath when you enter the room. The way I blush, always the blush--it gives me away before my words.
I give very few words away. I say them into my lungs, on the intake of my breath--the compliments that unnerve you so. Not everything needs to be said aloud.
Always, I surprise you.
Always, you surprise me.
These words, here, could become abstract so easily. They could fall into unreality, into that space where whispers come up through dreams at the coldest part of the morning, just before the sun rises and morning sets itself into a new day, stretching.
The days, they lengthen, always. And always, there are words. Your words. My words. The words of the writers we bring into the air as we read out loud.
I hardly know, on the worst days, what is real, what of me is real. What of me is real? On the good days, I have fragments--purple at midnight in a garden flower, cobwebs across my face, pen to paper, my flesh rising in bumps, even in the summer heat, at something that I've heard, at something that I've read.
Always, I surprise you.
Or maybe, I don't.
I'm not so surprised, anymore, that we found one another--that a friend led me to you when I wasn't looking, that I found you through Anne, Sylvia, Virginia. Discoveries are accidents made good.
I'm not so surprised, anymore, at the beauty of us in strangers' eyes.