Reading Hearts and Minds

Of late, I’ve found myself wishing I could read your heart and mind. I desired to see how your multihued eyes perceive me. What, I wonder, do those starbursts see in me? A friend, deserving a gentle landing; a harbinger of pain and missing to avoid, better unknown; a warm embrace to return and, in turn, enjoy; or someone to explore cautiously, in fear of pain but in hope of lasting warmth.

But now, I know my own heart and mind—they are not easily read, and still less understood. In you, I imagine, I would find much the same. In this self-reflection, I know that you are your own, as I am mine, to reveal to eachother in time and trust, or to hide away in safety, beyond pain but in doubt.

There is no lost art of telepathy of which I am master. I must be content with every flash of your eyes, smile on your lips, or word in truth; each a window to your heart. And hope for another glance, smile, or honest word. I would not have it any other way.

I can only hope that you will read this in the morning. Shortly after waking, on your way to breakfast. And in doing so, know that I would rather be there with you, learning all that I can about you, making up for time lost without you. I know, that though an end may come and pain find me, that moment will have been a spark of happiness in my eye. Whether this be my silly folly or lucky insight, and though it be embarassingly foward—I would like you to start your day knowing that.