Her Language
A spectacular invention, the five digits that dangle below her delicate narrow wrist.
Dainty and calloused
Scars and polish
The stories they tell
How familiar they know the water
Memory carved into each muscle
Bracing for impact, splitting the surface
Thrusting the rest of her body through the cold chlorinated wet
How tender they hold the rest of her
Softly quenching her legs with lotion
Gently manipulating each golden strand into place
Remembering how to play
How firm and steadfast they move
Navigating red spinning clay into wavy tall cylinders
Pushing and pulling to find a shape that matches her imagination just so
How expressive
The damn Italian genes exposing every sacred thought she attempted to shelter
Her hands, they gave her away. But only if one payed attention.
Nervous fidgets or longing pressure or tense fists or splayed with excitement
A mystery unless one knew the language.
Her language.
Which, half the time her own frontal lobe couldn't even translate.
Her body knew
And thats now she moved
Long abandoned the idea of restraining expression. It was hard enough to hold her tongue.
If one wanted to read her, to know her, to calculate her contemplations….
It was all there. In her hands, raised eyebrows, the tilt of her head, a twinkle or eye roll, the micro-smirks or pursing of the lips, and undoubtedly that big cheeks smile. The arch of her back, shifting in her seat, turning away…turning towards.
Even in an attempt to be stone cold, she couldn't stop breathing after all. Slow inhales or heavy swift sighs. If nothing else the ups and downs of her slender collar bones, framed by a scoop neckline was nothing short of a dead give away.
Zooming in, even the pulse in the pocket resting below her voice could spill her secrets.
When calm, slow steady rhythm
When heated, a little faster beat
When filled with joy, sporadic, untouchable, uncontrolled
In the end, she didnt really mind.
She craved the transparency she displayed to be captured
She craved to be seen and beheld without having to ask for it
She wanted the world without whispering a word
Her dreams on silent? exhibit
Every desire, wish, opinion, moment of curiosity, fleeting feeling….available on her surface.
As self aware as she (thought at least she) was, she was never quite certain how often she was read, or by whom. Certainly she picked up her own unspoken language on everyone else. She could read them as well as they might be able to her. Even this sometimes was unexpectedly crippling. Why so sensitive.
What is inside, she pondered, yearning to digest every invisible detail of the soul.
Eyes shifting down, one thumb softly circling the arch of the other wrist, getting lost in every wrinkle, fold, and freckle.
