The Truth

I am not a demonstrative woman. I whisper my affections in remembering the way you talked about that trip, in a playlist that repeats my feelings in twenty different lyrical styles, in the way that I allow you to consume my mind.

I am not a demonstrative woman, but I will imagine us in a cabin in the woods, sharing our coffee, our eyes trained on the trees outside. I’m not demonstrative, but I imagine what it’s like to climb mountains with you, to absorb nature with you by my side. To breathe in the altitude and catch my breath with my head on your shoulder.

I am not a demonstrative woman, but I have written my affections in the notes, in the gifts, in the moments I try to carve out for us, in the pride I have in you. I’m not demonstrative, but when you are beside me, my body is alive, every nerve ending charged and craving the press of you into me. I am not demonstrative, but my heart hasn’t learned to slow when you’re near, even now.

I am not a demonstrative woman, but “in the middle of the night, in my dreams, you should see the things we do, baby.”