I haven’t been able to figure you out, and discernment isn’t the issue. It’s the way you laugh, queasy sometimes, especially when the corners of your mouth move in discord, both their opposite ways. Sometimes I look to the corners of my eyes and catch you staring, with perhaps curiosity. I feel sometimes you are conspiring, and in your mind so much brooding, yet so much excitement. Maybe you are holding something back, but your overly delicate nature might someday burst of all that is bottled inside like a weary glass dam overflowing in rainy season. I have seen rainy days, I wonder if you have. Sometimes I wonder if you are thinking what I’m thinking. Maybe not as much, lest you’ve mastered the acts. Your face is pristine of emotion, but sometimes I see right through you, even through your shades. And I feel at times it makes you uneasy to be conceived, maybe you’re not ready to open, or maybe you’re just scared. Because it’s a different kind of happiness. A different kind of loving that we haven’t yet understood. Unconditional, in spite of me. In spite of you. And those words you whisper I’ve grown accustomed to, because you seldom speak. And while you know it kills me inside not having you beside me every time, you say good night and drive away.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll want you even more, or maybe I’ll have moved on with unhappiness– without a sunny day.