Mr. Aristotle, would you be so kind?

Its all gone quiet. My heart. My head. The pounding notion I felt when the neighbor would stick her head out the window to watch me check the mail. All gone quiet. Grey grey skies, that look heavy like they are waiting for the funeral. But there isn’t any. There isn’t anything. Or anyone. That’s a lie, there is someone. And I am watching him carefully. Drink his coffee. And look up at me between drawing well plotted lines on graph paper. When did we first meet? Do you remember what you said? The first time I left you standing alone at the door? He remembers. And he smiles. He wants to kiss me. But just looks at me. And pleads for me to tell him, yes, no…anything. He has eyes that dance when they look at me, and I know they dance only for me. I know he means everything he has ever said to me, and I know he will always mean everything he has ever said, A man of little words. But the knowing runs two ways and He knows I am not happy with this reserve. And his eyes are sad, they too are waiting for a funeral.