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At times I grow weary of her neverending, labyrinthine wendings. It’s nothing we say out loud, it’s a conversation our eyes make in quiet moments. The pools of hers ring with muffled sighs she rarely loosens and appearantly, my own glaze over visibly with irritated confusion, in response.
She breaks the silence with an apology (she apologizes too much), which I wave away with a distracted, half-hearted hand.
“I just wish you’d let it go.” I say. “It’s not as though anyone has died.”
“I don’t look that mournful, do I?” she asks.
“Of course you do.” I reply, judging I’ve hit my mark by the brief flash of her grey, dewy eyes in which I could almost read, verbatim, a moment before, the impromptu near-monodies of an unshakable romantic.
“I wish it were as simple a thing as just letting go.”
“But nothing’s ever been simple with you, eh?”
She looks up, startled, and laughs. Her laugh is cherubic, lilting and light. I’ve always loved the ease with which she absorbs my jabs. It tempers my impulse to shake her by the shoulders and demand that she snap out of her lingering moods.
“I’m happy that he’s happy. That’s simple, isn’t it?”
“How on earth would you know that he’s happy?”
“Why, the same way I know most things.” She murmurs, looking down coyly at her hands, with that distant yet assured look which is simultaneously endearing and maddening. Thank God I know better than to prod at a poet’s reasons or we might be at this line of logic all day. With a dubious sort of wisdom, then, I let her lapse into another ellipsis of silence, drinking in the sedate manner with which she studies the wavering nature of the weather and the undercurrent of her less explainable feelings.
Ah, Mercedes, it’s neither a blessing nor a curse that you feel so much in silence. It’s simply the sort of pathos which attributes too much depth to the shifting of shadows and their shallow silver linings.
Though I suppose there is another kind of superficiality in the stubborn frequency with which my own green eyes speak of pragmatism, purpose and unshakable sensibility.
"All the darkness in the world
cannot put out the light
of one candle"