I might often walk away telling you that I will not speak to you, but I never mean it. I know that my presence and absence affects you, just like my smile and tear. I have not mentioned smiles and tears because I know you die for a single glance of my smile, and bother at a single flicker of my tear.
I might keep my expectations low from you, but I never keep my faith in you low. I believe in you more than I trust the plot of my enemies or the power of destructive forces. I have firm faith that I can never be demoralised, insecure or deficient, with your proud hand resting on my back.
I might laugh away at your remarks and appreciation in the same manner, but I always value them separately. Your mischief, which is poor than what a seven-year-old does, helps me hide what happens deep inside, faking my feelings of enjoying your pampering while being upset with you.
I might escape your vicinity, but it is no signal that I won’t take care of you. I move away as I can’t pretend to be unaffected by your sparkling stare, affectionate slaps and combing fingers. I know it happens without a plan, by sheer coincidence, but this black magic should be kept out of reach.
I might not talk to you about you, or to anyone about you before you, but I do talk about you to my confidant on the other side of my dresser’s mirror. I talk about my fears of not loosing you, in the same manner as you are afraid of loosing me, but I can’t gather the courage to move my lips before you.
I might have never said but you are the ‘hero’ who makes me the ‘heroine’.
In hope that you will listen to the tons of tales that my silence has to narrate,